


Sights Set On An End Game

by extentia



Series: Sights Set On An End Game [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, BAMF!Stiles, Gen, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Murder Husbands, Pre-Hale Fire, Steter - Freeform, descriptive magic, explicit spell casting, kate is a pedophile, nobody ooc, stiles always reminding himself to chill the fuck out, stiles rants, that just means it's detailed for no good reason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:14:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extentia/pseuds/extentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*****THIS WORK IS ON INDEFINITE HIATUS****<br/>"Fine." Peter acquiesces. "And why is a hunter hunting a hunter?"<br/>"Not a hunter." Stiles quips.<br/>"Why?" Peter grunts at him, looking ready to pounce.<br/>"Chill!" Stiles complains, "Shit. She murdered a lot of people, a lot of weres, and my pack -" Stiles had to shovel the pang back down, "they're gone now. But, my pack wanted me to do this. It's the last thing I'm doing here. She fucked up the people I care about. I'm seeking justice, retribution, revenge. I'm making the world better. Without her, everything will be better. Fuck off with the intrusive questions."</p><p>    Peter's eyes soften. He doesn't know anything about losing pack, and if he's lucky he never will. He doesn't understand the pain Stiles has been facing everyday since he came back, since Scott died, since he killed Allison. He doesn't understand and he still softens his eyes in mock sympathy. Well, fuck that and fuck him.</p><p>    "I'm truly sorry for your loss." He says, and it's so infuriating. Peter, pretending, yet again, for some upperhand Stiles doesn't yet grasp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Backup

**Author's Note:**

> this story is edited a little bit, but still a rough copy. thanks for being patient with me.
> 
>  
> 
> this fic has a playlist: http://8tracks.com/boysdontlikeme/sights-set-on-an-end-game

    "So what?" Stiles grasps at the straws of Lydia's argument, "So I just do what needs to be done? For the good of all of us, you know, except for me."

  
    Derek breaks the tense silence that follows with a tender sigh, slapping his hand over Stiles shoulder. "It's not fair, Stiles, we get it."

  
    "But it's the best idea we've got." Lydia finishes.

  
    "Yeah, because I'm the only one who can do magic." Stiles relaxes into the huge couch in Derek's loft. Of course it was Stiles they expect to give up everything for his friends, his pack, his family. They're right to think it, too. Being self-sacrificing isn't a bad thing, really, until there's no good reason to sacrifice.

  
    "You guys are never going to know what I did for you, if this works." Stiles reiterates. He's had the same argument at least twice now.

  
    "My family would take you in, Stiles." Derek reminds him. But Stiles knows it'll involve too much explanation, if even the Hale pack would believe him. It will be better for him to stop the fire from happening and then get himself out of dodge. He could pick a city out on the map of the west coast and then never come back to Beacon Hills, where other Stiles would be growing up with no knowledge of a life that will never happen. Not after Stiles succeeds.

  
    "Yeah, maybe." He lets out a bland laugh. "There's really no good reason to say goodbye, huh? Nobody will ever know I've gone! Nobody will know to know that I've saved everyone."

  
    "But they'll be alive." Lydia puts her foot down, where before it had been crossed easily over her other knee.  

  
    "I'm just going to kill Kate and leave for good, I think."

  
    Derek's glare levels him from across the room, softer than it has been lately.

  
    "If you think that's what's best for you to do." Derek's unspoken _however, if you think being alone in the past when I clearly offered my family's support is your best option, you are an idiot_ rung clear throughout the loft.

  
    "Der..." Stiles trails off, not really knowing what to say.

  
    "Stiles!" Lydia demands his attention. "It's today or three months from now."

  
    "Yeah, yeah, I know." He grumbles in response. "So I have to be alone for this. Just leave your blood in those bowls."

  
    On the coffee table sits two wooden bowls. One is labeled Lydia and the other, a slightly larger one, reads Derek. Stiles sits transfixed as Lydia cuts her palm over her bowl, the blood traveling down her fingers to pour into it. Derek follows after, using the same ceremonial blade, leaving quite a bit more blood than Lydia. It's necessary, since it's Derek's family Stiles is using to bond with and return to. When the blood tapers off and Derek's skin was finally sews itself shut, Stiles launches himself into the other man's arms.

  
    "I know this won't matter for you, but I'm going to miss you, ya big sourwolf."

  
    Derek's arms wound around Stiles small body securely and Stiles is able to let out a breath in comfort before he has to leave everything behind him and never stop running from his old life.

  
    "Of course it matters." Derek talks into his shoulder, ignoring the fact he won't have ever had this conversation, for sake of Stiles. Or maybe he's just being true to his current feelings.

  
    "Fake identification," Lydia lists, handing him items, "eighteen thousand dollars, cash, and don't forget you can't deposit more than nine a week without ringing some alarm bells."

  
    "I know, I know, Lydia. I read it on this website for sugar babies awhile back. I've never had a chance to use that information but I'm glad we always end up knowing the same shit." Stiles grins over Derek's shoulder at her.

  
    "Alright, Der, I gotta get started." Parting is hard, even harder now that the moment is really upon him. Stiles is never going to see this Derek again. He is never going to see this Lydia again. At least Scott will be alive, Stiles ponders, hell, at least Peter will be alive. The whole Hale pack will live if Stiles can just chill the fuck out and do what has to be done. It'll be the better for everyone.

  
    Lydia approaches him but just puts her hands on his shoulders, looking at him with her piercing stare, trying to communicate something lost on him.

  
    "Bye, Lyds." Stiles breaks her eye contact and turns away from her.

  
    Stiles watches them go, because how could he not? How could he deprive himself of the last bit of his real life? Then he laughs at himself and the sad joke in his thoughts - that is exactly what he's doing by leaving.

  
    He clears out a large space on the floor of the loft and then turns all the lights out, leaving the room in the pitch-black of night. He lights a few candles and puts them just out of reach, using the dim cast to guide his movements. He created the ritual himself, so he uses chalk to draw a large pentacle on the floor, never letting himself leave it, putting all his nervous energy into the drawing. He connects all the lines except one part of the outer-circle.

  
    The space in the circle is large. He gets up and moves all the supplies he needs into the circle and then closes it. The circle concentrates his magic and allows him to block outside energies.

  
    He puts the blood-filled bowls in the two empty parts near the head of the pentagram in the circle and then lights an incense. The incense is some temple blend he brought from Deaton's. He puts it on the point of the pentagram he's using to represent air and draws some symbols in that very corner. He meditates on the feeling of air, the energy of wind, and when he has that on lock, he moves on to the next point of the pentagram and repeats the process for fire, then water, then earth. All have a token of their power: the last candle for fire, a bowl of water, and a large piece of iron for earth.

  
    When he faces the top of the pentagram, meditating on the spirit, the ghost, the guide, the self, he concentrates on what his will to do is. The smell of the incense drops to the background, dragging Stiles consciousness with it. He's in a trance state, taking the dagger and cutting the lengths of his fingers, dripping blood into Lydia's bowl.  _This is sacrifice._

  
    He uses the knife to stir their bloods together. The blood of a banshee, the witness of death, and the call of magic, working in tandem. He uses the blood to re-outline his pentagram, feeling the power leeching into it through his actions. The room feels lighter, he feels lighter, less there already. The small bowl is empty soon after and he retires it to the spot he took it from. _Maybe Deaton's world is about balance. My world is of wills._

  
    He takes the dagger back to his own fingertips, drawing a deep line into just his index finger, and dropping his blood onto each totem he has for the elements. The feeling of it seizes him, wrapping around his body like a compression field as he moves his way point to point.

  
    The bowl of Derek's blood is suddenly his whole world. He chants over it, using the words he's spent weeks crafting, putting every ounce of energy he can grasp into the words, into the blood, into the energy of the universe, willing it, _take me back, bring me back, before the Hale fire, before this, before now, before, back, put me there._

  
    The bowl seizes and breaks, splattering Stiles and the circle in blood but none leaves the circle, bouncing against an invisible barrier. Suddenly, Stiles is filled with the inexplicable need to sleep, to rest, to close his eyes.

  
    So he does, wrapping around himself, leaving the candle burning, the incense breathing, he just shuts his eyes and feels the concrete and wet blood against his cheek. He'll worry about this tomorrow.

  
    Stiles wakes slowly, shaking away the close comfort of unconsciousness. He always felt calm after spells, especially larger ones. They take away all the excess energy you have and leave you with nothing but your reserves, the core. Stiles reserves are minimal, so there's a sense of calm radiating around him. Sleeping after the Nogitsune's possession proved fruitless until he started working with magic. Eventually, sleep was no longer scary. It simply was.

  
    Awareness returns fully as he sits up and observes his circle. The candle is out. The incense long since burned away. The bowl of water was still and the hunk of iron seems to have diminished in size a bit. Maybe he's just imagining it.

  
    He takes great care to work the circle backwards, spirit to earth to water to fire to air, and then he takes the sleeve of his sweater and wipes away a square of the physically drawn circle. He steps out and looks around the loft. It's empty, dusty, and the windows are covered in a fine layer of dirt. It looks more like a factory than a loft at this point in time, and that is the grand gesture from the universe, or deity, Stiles has been hoping for. The spell worked. He is in the past.

  
    He feels around his torso for the envelope of money and identification, finding both in a matter of seconds and feeling relieved. There was no guarantee anything but he were to come back. He shrugs off the sweater, covered in blood, and wipes his face as best as he can before he can find a place to burn it. His undershirt is blessedly blood-free from what he can tell.

  
     _I should probably find some water to clean this up_ , he thinks. He didn't really consider cleaning up at all, but he can't just leave a Banshee-Hale-Magic-Stiles beacon for anyone to find. He doesn't really want to find a way to get water up the many steps that this building has. He doesn't really want to do anything but figure out the day and the time, but he doesn't have a choice. He never really had a choice.

  
    So, hours later, having found a bucket in one of the rooms downstairs and realizing the water to the building was still on, Stiles finishes washing away the evidence of his visit to the abandoned building. There's still the blood, yeah, and someone will be able to smell it if they try hard enough, but there is no evidence of a circle or of magic, so Stiles figures he's safe to abandon the building himself.

  
    Extracting himself from that area of town on foot, he keeps an eye out for dumpsters. It's easier to just get rid of his sweater, even if he'd miss it terribly. If he weren't so hesitant to smear blood all over his features, he'd smell it just to try to find a whiff of Derek or Lydia. As it is, burning the thing might just waste time, so he decides it'll be easiest to throw it away and never come back to find it. Eventually someone will come and pick it up, and who cares if someone tracks a bloody shirt to a dump? Not him, that's for sure.

  
    His black jeans might have blood on them, but he can't see any, so neither could anyone passing see it. In retrospect, he hadn't considered anyone smelling the blood, or that they would recognize it as Derek's. In fact, he is just entering Shoshan's, a small thrift shop off of the main street, where he nearly ran face-first into Deaton, when he remembers there will be a full family of werewolves that could attack him for perceived wrongs against their own.

  
    "Ah, man, sorry, man," Stiles lets out a string of curses and moves away from the vet and holds the door, allowing him to pass out of the shop. Said man just raises an eyebrow at him. Stiles tries very hard to seem like he wasn't doing magic, which doesn't make much sense, he realizes, but he still tries. What would the smile of someone not doing magic look like? Probably just like a smile, but you can never be too sure.

  
    "That's quite alright..." The vet trails off, looking for a name to call Stiles. It's an easy social grace, and who doesn't know that trailing off was meant as a question? Stiles decides to just ignore his inquiry.

  
    "Yeah, no problem for holding the door and stuff. Bye." Stiles enters the shop determinedly not looking back at Deaton. He will not befriend any one he knew, he swears to himself. He will not even talk to them if he can help it. Still, the lure of company calls to him. He never really liked to be alone. He recalls pulling away from people every time he was in trouble, or stressed, or self-loathing. Right now he is 2/3, so he figures not reaching out is exactly in his character and therefore nothing to concern himself with.

  
    He pulls out his fake ID, looking at the name and picture again. He has a wide, goofy grin plastered on his face. They took it at the loft, back when - he abruptly cuts off his train of thought. _Nope! Not today! Today is buy a pair of pants day. Today is find some nicer clothes day. Today is rent a room in a motel day._ His name is Stefan Fenris. He is 23. His birthday is May 27. Well, he is flighty like a Gemini. He figures it was all a big joke to Lydia when she got this. Fenris? He lets out a quiet snort through his nose.

  
    He trifles through the racks of clothes. All the hangers are different, and the clothes are in no order of size or type. After a bit of searching he finds a few black jeans and a pair of grey slacks. Grey isn't really his color, but he has to find something to use in a job interview. He can't just sit in a motel room all day until his job is done. Well, no, he can. He just doesn't want to.

  
    He tries on the pants, and replaces a disgusting pair of skinny jeans that cling just too tightly for his comfort. He follows it up with a few cotton tees and a couple button ups. He doesn't really want a full wardrobe, and he doesn't want to draw much attention to himself.

  
    "Can I change in here?" He asks the cashier, a quiet old woman with greying hair, after he completes the transaction. She nods an affirmative and points him to a bathroom behind the counter.

  
    After, bags in hand, he throws the old jeans into a garbage can and begins the walk to the motel he knows is closest to the clothing store. It's more of an inn, less of a multi-national corporation, but it serves his needs. He buys a room and a paper from the man at the front desk and retreats, key in hand, to that room.

  
    The date reads June 27, 2005. That is way later than he expected! He anticipated arriving in 2005, yeah, but in January or March, since that's around the time he left. The fact he didn't need a coat should have been a clue-in, though. The Hale fire didn't happen until October, during the Beacon Hills High School's homecoming dance, so he still has time.

  
    During the summer before the Hale fire, Derek had been meeting up with Kate in secret. He is only a junior this year. It makes Stiles stomach roll, how Kate used Derek. Since he is stopping the Hale fire, the only bad deed Kate is responsible for is the rape of Derek Hale. You could draw lines at statutory, but it is sick no matter what. Derek doesn't deserve that. Shit, nobody deserves that. Stiles will be stopping that once he kills her.

  
    He falls asleep sometime before dark, laying silent on top of the over-used comforter of the motel. When he woke up, it was to the rumble of his stomach and the empty pang of the pack bond. He took the large envelope and hid it in the icebag the motel provided, and then put it in the toilet bowl. ID and a few $50's in pocket, he left the motel behind and walked to the local pizza diner, Fred's. He hoped it was still open because he didn't have a phone, a watch, or a clock in the motel room.

  
    The night air was heavy with humidity and it weighed Stiles steps down. The pack bond was always such a heavy influence, but he never really noticed it until he no longer had it. It was like a void in his energy. Is this what Derek felt like after the fire? It was how Peter and Laura felt, too, he realized belatedly. He always wondered what Derek meant when he said 11 people died in the Hale fire, when the report only gave eight names. He, Laura, and Peter died with their pack. Another pang of emptiness shot through Stiles like one of Allison's stray arrows.

  
    Allison will live this time! Stiles could have cried in joy at that revelation. All his sins would atone! In this world, he never would have killed Allison.

  
    Under the neon signs of Fred's, pizza box in hand, he ventured over to a series of benches lining a grassy plane. If Beacon Hills had any homeless, he would gladly share, but there was never any, in his memory. Since he was of age, he might stop by a liquor store and get some liquor. Stiles was just 19, if he were to be honest, but he would reap the benefits of a new identity if he wanted to. And he really wanted to.

  
    The stars weren't as bright as they could be in the preserve, but he wouldn't be caught out there in the middle of the night if he could help it. He didn't know anything about the state of the Hale pack at present, besides the fact they frequented much of the preserve. No thank you. No matter how much he wanted to stare at the sky, he would not allow himself that grace. He could enjoy the night from here perfectly well.

  
    Three pieces into the pie, he could feel the pizza clogging up his arteries and had to step away. What was he to do with a whole pizza? There was no fridge in the motel. He should have just bought slices. There was always someone to finish the pizza back home. He just forgot he was alone here.

  
    It was just a fluke, he insisted to himself. He would get used to it. He wished he was able to carry more money back with him, so that he could buy a house or a car, but $18,000 was enough for him to get on his feet, so he was grateful for that at least.

  
    He spent the night awake, drinking a $60 bottle of tequila, thinking about the life he left behind. For awhile he was happy, then he was not. He took a shower as light began to climb the horizon  and changed back into yesterday's pants and one of the button up shirts. His breath still smelled slightly of alcohol, so he stopped at Mcdonalds for a coffee before heading to the library to do some research.

  
    The computers required a library card to access, but since he was neither a resident of Beacon Hills nor a real person, he simply waited for someone to get up before logging out to begin his search. Kate Argent. City records for the Hale property. Where the rest of the Argents were. Where to buy mountain ash in this place and time (he found nothing helpful). Where to buy wolfsbane. How to tend to the plant. How to tend to plants in general. What plants would work complement wolfsbane in spells. Some things he already knew and some things he was just learning. Either way, allowing himself to research helped to calm his racing thoughts. He looked up cities in Arizona and New Mexico for real estate and property value. He was looking up information on forging new identities from scratch when the hairs on his neck began to bristle.

  
    He was being watched. He quickly shut the tabs he had open and cleared the history. He turned the computer off, as an added precaution and stood up as casually as he could. He turned around, sweeping his eyes as gently as he could over everyone in the room, but nobody stood out. He retreated back into the shelves, among the true crime section, he noted, and started to browse titles, keeping very careful eye on his surroundings.

  
    A title caught his eye, _The Mind of Murder: 23 deaths a long time coming_. He pulled it off the shelf to read the back. _Any murderer thinks they're justified in some way or they would never commit that act. Author Jeremy Penn interviews the madness behind the most interesting cases you have never heard of. The accounts within will keep you on edge. Dive right into the mind of a murderer._

  
    Pfft, he snorted, putting the book back. He didn't really need anyone seeing him in this section, reading about murders. If he failed, he might be the one blamed for the Hale fire. He had to leave, find something else to occupy his time. He had to procure mountain ash and wolfsbane anyway. Maybe he'd rob Deaton's practice.

  
    He turned around to hightail it out of there when he spotted Peter Hale, just lounging back in a plush chair, book resting on his knee. His mouth must have dropped open at some point, so he quickly closes it and moves his eyes away as best as he can. He makes his way from the back of the library, where he, Peter, the true crime section, and the computers sit. Every other step he finds his eyes wandering to Peter.

  
    He looks... young. He looks calm. Peter always made it his goal to look calm, but now he really seems at peace. His features are all relaxed, his eyes roving rows down at a fast speed. No leather in sight, just soft blues and greys. Stiles makes an approving noise in the back of his throat that cuts off abruptly as Peter looks up and straight at him.

  
    A hot flush rises up his neck and into his cheeks in embarrassment. He flashes a small smile in Peter's direction and hightails it out of the library. _How embarrassing. Blushing! I blushed at Peter!_

  
    He needed transportation and a job. He also needed socks and underwear, now that he was thinking about it. He stops at the store and walks around for 2 hours, mind running blankly, before buying one of the cheaper bikes, a bike lock, some unscented body wash/shampoo combo, a 10 pack of socks and a 10 pack of underwear. They were cheap and itchy, but how was he going to complain? You get what you pay for. He then takes the bike back to the motel, which was far easier than walking, and he takes the bike to Rosanne's Coffee Shop  & Restaurant to put in an application.

  
    "You got any experience waiting tables, honey?" Rosanne asks.

  
    Rosanne is a plump woman in her late forties. In his time, she's already dead. In her black and grey wisps, he sees ghosts. He'd have to get used to this if he was going to work here.

  
    "Yeah," Stiles lies, "I know the money isn't too good, but I love the people."

  
    "Yeah," Rosanne agrees, "It's the summer now, so I have teenagers coming in every other day looking for work. So if I'm going to hire you, you gotta put your back into it and stick around for awhile, you hear?"

  
    "Yes, ma'am." Stiles mock salutes, "I'm looking forward to it, when I get the job, that is."

  
    "Oh, hush, you got the job." She gives him a nice smile, "Now, Stefan when can you start?"

  
    "As soon as you say the word!" Stiles responds eagerly.

  
    "Well," she takes a look around the mostly empty building, "Monday's are especially busy for us, so why don't you stop by 'round about 7 tomorrow morning and we'll get you set up with an apron and pen and pad."

  
    "That sounds good to me, Rose." He smiles charmingly at the woman and then takes his leave, buying a small muffin to go.

  
    And for a full week, nothing interesting happens. He makes enough in tips that he hasn't had to open a bank account, but with his first check he almost decides to try his luck at pretending to have a social security number. He'll join a local union, not a national chain. It should be okay. Except, he's too scared to risk it.

  
    After two checks, and two weeks of work, he brings it up with Rosanne.

  
    "Do you think it would be possible you just pay me in cash?"

  
    She narrows her eyes at him, and her limp hair falls down over her forehead.

  
    "You running from something?"

  
    Stiles barks out a laugh and then looks at her with a sheepish smile.

  
    "No, I just don't trust banks that much. You know, the depression only hit the US so hard because we all trusted the banks so much. It would be a lot safer to solely invest in small credit unions, or even to keep all your money locked up on your own." He rambled, "And we all know that isn't the safest thing to do, what with all the guns and the knives and the murder and the prisons, which are overfilled all over America! It's mostly due to racism and too-strict drug laws, it would be so easy to fix! It's just nobody does anything about it! Anyway, we don't really need another depression, and if it happens, I want to be exempt. You know, as much as you can be exempt from money not being worth anyth-"

  
    "Stefan? You have a table. We'll talk about it after close, okay?"

  
    "Sorry. Going."

  
    Stiles can't approach the group that sat in his section right away, so he tries to calm his beating heart. At the table is Peter, someone who he thinks could be Talia, and at least 3 children. He fills up 5 glasses with ice water and puts them on a tray for them. He can feel his heart pumping a bit too loudly, but they are werewolves, and they could hear he was supposed to be on his way, so he grits his teeth, gathers his wits, and marches to the table, reminding himself to keep his words carefully constructed.

  
    "Hello, good morning!" Stiles smiles brightly, putting the drinks down in front of each person and pulling out the writing pad he carries, "Welcome to Rosanne's. Call me, Stefan, if you need anything. What can I get for you?"

  
    "Stefan, thank you," Peter drawls, "I'll have a coffee for now."

  
    "A large orange juice for me, and 3 hot chocolates for the kids." The woman orders.

  
    "With extra whipped-cream!" Kid one demands.

  
    "Yeah, can we get extra whipped cream?" The other two inquire.

  
    "Sure you can if?" Stiles raises an eyebrow at the woman, who nods the affirmative.

  
    "Cool, coming right up."

  
    As he fills the drink order, he finds himself looking at the pack longingly. That could have been him. He never has particularly wanted kids, but those could have been Scott's and Allison's babies. It could be the pack, shoving themselves into the booths at Rosanne's, ordering breakfast and laughing like they were having the best of times. Maybe they could have had the best of times, if they lived somewhere else. That's why Stiles has to leave once he was finished. He has to get out, to see the world, to experience life without tragedy and breaking into ruins over the deaths of loved ones.

  
    Shit, he missed his dad.

  
    He placed the three hot cocoa's on the tray, whipped cream piled two inches over the rim of each mug, and then the coffee cup, the orange juice, and a medium-sized pitcher of milk for the coffee. Peter never specified, but Stiles remembered all the late nights he spent at the loft. Peter would put so much milk in his coffee it turned as alabaster as his own skin. Stiles had to admit, coffee tastes great with milk, but Peter added enough that if he didn't finish the cup within 10 minutes it would be cold and he'd have to dump it out and start all over.

  
    The tray was balanced carefully in two hands and he deposited the orders to each of the pack members at the table.

  
    "Have you guys decided on anything to eat, as of yet?" Stiles wondered.

  
    "Hmm..." The woman muttered. Peter looked at her with a question in his eye and then the kids before telling his order. The woman, then the kids followed. It took a long minute for Stiles to walk away, because he found himself entranced by the way the pack interacted. He felt the pang for pack again and had to shove it down quickly when the woman and Peter looked at him funny. They probably thought he wanted kids or something to that extent.

  
    "Sorry." Stiles mumbled, "I'll put these in right away." He gestured to the pad in his hand and then made a swift exit for the back of the counter.

  
    Exactly 7 minutes later, Stiles emerges from the depths he's hidden himself in with the pot of coffee for Peter. He glances around the table, noting Peter's glass is the only one near empty and he offers the pot in question before filling his cup.

  
    "Ah there's good." Peter mumbles. There's nearly and inch and a half of room to the top of the cup and Stiles let's out a happy giggle at that. Same old Peter, indeed. He doesn't make a joke about it, because who knows how Peter would respond to that. He just double checks if they need anything and takes his leave.

  
    "Wait, Stefan?" The woman injects as he's merely a step away from their table.

  
    "Yes, ma'am?" He turns around and walks back to the table, cocking his head to the side in question.

  
    "I just realized I never introduced us. I am Talia, this is my brother Peter, and these are my nieces Tammy and Patricia, and my nephew Oliver."

  
    "Well, hello, all around I guess." Stiles began to play with the collar of his shirt, "You already know I'm Stefan. It's nice to meet all of you. I haven't seen you all since I've been here. Do you live in town?" He directs the question at Talia, who he knows is the Alpha. It's almost unconscious, because he would rather talk to Peter, since he's familiar. He congratulates himself on successfully speaking around the truth as she addresses him.

  
    "Yes, we own a large plot of land on the preserve, that way." She gestures some direction he isn't keeping track of. He's been to the Hale house enough times to know where it is, only casting a cursory glance in the direction she points just to be polite.

  
    "And you?" Talia questions, "I can't remember seeing your face."

  
    "Ah, well, there's nothing to remember on your part. I just got to town a few weeks back. I've just been hanging, you know, with myself, eating pizza, serving folks at the local coffee shop, you know."

  
    "Oh? Do you have family in town?" Peter interjects, kindly.

  
    "I didn't come here for family, if that's what you mean. I'm just taking a break in my travels, and it was like this town was calling out to me. Like a beacon." Stiles gives them both a cheesy grin and laughs at his own joke. "You know, Beacon Hills?"

  
    The kids laugh at that, so Stiles considers it a win. He gets a small smile from both Peter and Talia in return.

  
    "Do you plan on staying long?" Talia demands. Well, he had to give it to her, this was her territory.

  
    "Ah, no not really. I'll probably be gone long before the winter solstice. I've just got to get some money together and -"

  
    The bell ring signals the order up, and Stiles takes his leave apologetically.

  
    "Ah! Foods up, hold on."

  
    Shit did he just say winter solstice? Do normal people say that? Do werewolves say that? It's either so normalized to them they don't notice it, or they don't deign to comment on it in front of him.

  
    "Please enjoy, and don't hesitate to ask for anything you need!" He garnishes with a wide sweeping gesture and an annoyingly large smile and takes his leave.

  
    They leave soon after eating, leaving a $50 tip on the table. Shit. Was this them subtly telling him to get out faster? 'Here's fifty extra dollars towards your leaving fund.' Or was it just a kind gesture? Huh, well, $50 is $50. He isn't going to complain.

  
    When the pack leaves, the restaurant is empty again. He uses the blank space to think about his interaction with them, making sure nothing he did was too... weird for a normal, everyday, average, totally-not-supernatural, totally-not-magic, totally-very-simply-just-a-regular-person kind of person.

  
    He stalks the town on his days off, looking for Kate. He can't do a locator spell until he has some of her essence, and he can't find her anywhere. Then, one day, she finally appears, walking from a car to the post office. The silver van screams pedophile, or maybe that's just him. He jots down the plate number and then begins a walk in the opposite direction, the sidewalk to nowhere. Maybe he's just exercising. Maybe he should start running again.

  
    "Stefan." A voice greets and Stiles jumps half a foot into the air and lands in a fighting stance.

  
    When he turns around and only sees Peter, his cheeks flush in embarrassment again. He relaxes his stance and puts a sheepish hand on the back of his neck. There really is no reason to relax, but Peter of this time doesn't know that Stiles knows he's a manipulative piece of shit, however fond of him Stiles may feel.

  
    "Ah, uh, Peter?" Stiles asks, unsure if that's the right name.

  
    "I was just coming to say hello, but it seems I've caught you unawares."

  
    "Ah, well, nobody here knows me. I forgot I told someone my name. And I've been caught up in my head. It was just a surprise is all."

  
    "Naturally." Peter allows.

  
    "So, what's up?" Stiles questions.

  
    "Do you know that woman?" Peter asks, getting directly to the point and putting Stiles immediately on the defense.

  
    "Woman?" Stiles looks around, well aware Kate was still in the post office, "Which woman?"

  
    "The one who's plate number you've got written on the little notepad of yours, Stefan."

  
    "Ha ha ha," He chokes out, "Oh, her! Yeah, she ran like 3 red lights to get here, I was thinking about reporting her to the police."

  
    "Three red lights?" Peter confirms.

  
    "That's what I said."

  
    "You're lying."

  
    "No, that's definitely what I said. 'Three red lights.' Definitely not lying."

  
    Peter's amusement grows visibly on his face, and he accosts Stiles physically, backing him into a wall with his forearm over Stiles sternum.

  
    "Why don't we try to tell the truth, Stefan?"

  
    "Why don't we? Okay, truth, truth, truth, where do I find the truth so I can talk to him?"

  
    Stiles knew it was in poor taste to aggravate a werewolf that was currently, violently, holding him to a wall. In tandem with his thoughts, Peter presses his arm into Stiles with more pressure, causing Stiles to let out a pained groan.

  
    "Ugh, wow, fine. I know her name is Kate Argent."

  
    "And?" Peter prompts.

  
    "And she's a bitch? I don't know. What are you looking for here?"

  
    "Argent: why are you following her?"

  
     _Maybe he's worried about me following Derek. Huh._ Well, the truth won't kill him, he doesn't think. He doesn't want Peter to think he's trying to hurt the Hale pack. He takes a deep breath in and calmly addresses the issue.

  
    "She's a hunter. I'm going to kill her." He knows his heartbeat doesn't stutter over either statement.

  
    "Well, with the name Argent I would have guessed as much." Peter growled, "Is that why you're in Beacon Hills?"

  
    "Yes."

  
    "Who sent you?"

  
    "I sent me." Technically, Stiles did send himself here.

  
    A beat passes and then Peter lets his arm up.

  
    "Alright, well, no harm, no foul, then. Did I hurt you?"

  
    Stiles traces a hand up his chest, pressing just enough to tell nothing hurts.

  
    "Maybe a bruise." He shrugs at Peter's offered apology, considering it to be less than sincere.

  
    "Whatever." Stiles interrupts. "Is this going to happen again or can I be free of your physical presence for the time being? It's a little hard to be stealthy when I've got pack hanging off my back during sleuth time."

  
    Peter's eyes widen in surprise.

  
    "Yeah, backpack, it's very funny. I'm usually very funny, full of puns and everybody tells me I've got the best sense of humor they have ever heard of. But no, that's not true. I think I'm pretty funny though."

  
    "What do you know of my pack?"

  
    "Uh?" Stiles starts, "You live on the preserve? And Derek's totally head-over-heels infatuated with Miss Argent over there."

  
    "Really, now? And why should I believe you?"

  
    "I don't really care if you believe me. I'm here to kill her not inform you about sordid relationships and pedophilic psychopaths."

  
    "Fine." Peter acquiesces. "And why is a hunter hunting a hunter?"

  
    "Not a hunter." Stiles quips.

  
    "Why?" Peter grunts at him, looking ready to pounce.

  
    "Chill!" Stiles complains, "Shit. She murdered a lot of people, a lot of Weres, and my pack -" Stiles had to shovel the pang back down, "they're gone now. But, my pack wanted me to do this. It's the last thing I'm doing here. She fucked up the people I care about. I'm seeking justice, retribution, revenge. I'm making the world better. Without her, everything will be better. Fuck off with the intrusive questions."

  
    Peter's eyes soften. He doesn't know anything about losing pack, and if he's lucky he never will. He doesn't understand the pain Stiles has been facing everyday since he came back, since Scott died, since he killed Allison. He doesn't understand and he still softens his eyes in mock sympathy. Well, fuck that and fuck him.

  
    "I'm truly sorry for your loss." He says, and it's so infuriating. Peter, pretending, yet again, for some upperhand Stiles doesn't yet grasp.

  
    "Well don't be!" Stiles seethes. "It's done. It's over. I'm leaving."

  
    With a quick glance over, he sees Kate's car already gone.

  
    "Did she see us?" Stiles has to ask, too caught up in the moment to pay attention to his surroundings.

  
    "No." He answers.

  
    "Good," Stiles nods, "and good bye."

  
    He walks away without turning back, and he feels the anger bubbling up around his whole body. His aura has to be black right now. He wants to seek, to destroy, to fuck something up. There is an empty fucking void inside of him where his pack belongs and Derek said to just go to Talia! Just ask for shelter and explain what will happen to them! To join the Hale pack, as if it were that simple. To see Derek grow up, to watch that pack grow, just a few miles away from where young!stiles was growing up with Scott, with a crush on Lydia, with a mother who just died, with a huge future, untainted by werewolves and the death that lay in wait for that lucky piece of shit that was, will be, or never will be, Stiles Stilinski. It's so fucked up.


	2. You Have Chosen to Play in 'easy' Mode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was long bike ride back to his motel - and he had begun thinking of it as his. He remembers looking at Beacon Hills from the look-out point so many times with Scott, ever since they were old enough to get there by themselves. Beacon Hills didn't just look big. It was a sprawling city, sparkling lights and tremendous cityscape with an amazingly large forest preserve just beyond and out of view. The darkness never called to him then like it did after his pseudo-sacrifice to the nemeton.
> 
>  
> 
> It could be argued that he was fucked long before werewolves and darachs and his possession. What normal teenager would actively search out a dead body for entertainment? In theory, it was normal. Teenage boys do weird stuff all the time! That's how he justified it to his dad, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just realized how much casual cussing i write, but since i think and talk that way it's not much of a surprise

    Stiles didn't know who this Peter was. Fuck, if he were honest with himself, he didn't even know the other Peter that well. All of his instincts and energy went into distancing himself from Peter, or trying to figure out his end game on a bad day. The last time he had seen Peter had been long before he was on his deathbed. Eichen House wasn't Peter's literal funeral home, and technically Peter probably didn't die on a bed, but once he went in he didn't come back out. It had been a couple of years since they dumped him inside that hollow asylum when they got the call that basically amounted to 'Hey, well, Peter's dead now so there's no longer anything to worry about and you can stop paying us.'

  
    Stiles hadn't even been aware that someone, Derek probably, was footing the bill the whole time. It probably should have been obvious, since his own Eichen House bill for just a measly few days of service had been astronomical. He kind of missed Morrell. Even though she never died in the original timeline he never went back to see her. He really thought about it following his possession, but there wasn't much of a reason. He felt more than bad that he had caused Allison's death, it was a gaping hole he ripped into himself that he kept diving into and swimming through, but he was strangely at peace with everything else he did. He needed to talk about that. He needed to try to figure out why he just didn't give a shit. He was the asshole who cheerfully played with people, reveling in murder and chaos - and still he just moved on from it so easily.

  
    Every one of Stiles actions for the next few days had to be crafted perfectly. Would Peter immediately go to Talia with the information he had learned? Stiles was guessing that, no, he would want to keep that bit of information from his Alpha so he could have the greatest vantage point from which to act. Peter would probably break the news to his pack eventually, and then Stiles would emerge from the solitude of his new home in the inn and he would be welcomed in with open arms, or so he hoped. It was hard to predict how strangers would react, given his story or given Peter's recollection of it. He'd have to come up with a few important bullet points to draw from so that when the conversation happened he'd be ready with material to share. He'd have to gain their trust, so he figured he'd touch upon the consent issues Kate disregarded and how it fucked Derek up for the rest of his life, obviously, and the guilt he forced himself to bear like granite upon his back for his entire life - _until I decided to come back to right everything_ , Stiles would assure them. He might mention how he was forced to bear witness to his own undoing at the hands of a nogitsune, and how he caused Allison's death. That would garner sympathy, for sure.

  
    He started feeling restlessness again, amplified into the empty space his head became without Adderall, a void that drew him from his plans for the future. It was an empty pull downward that he knew if he were to allow himself to give in, he would drag himself into a spiral of depression.

  
    It would be a fun joke to start drawing spirals around town - on Kate's car - on whatever she was using as her home, across the front door of Beacon Hills high school, maybe even into her disgusting flesh once he finally caught up to her. But there was nothing for Stiles to claim revenge for, technically. That, and it would put Kate on the defensive as soon as she saw it. If she didn't know, Derek would probably tell her what it meant if only she asked him. The last thing Stiles needed was for her to be ready for him.

  
    As it was, there was a likelihood Peter would come looking for him again as soon as the fancy struck. Stiles really needed that mountain ash and the only place he knew, without a doubt, that would have it was Deaton's clinic. Even if he were careful, he couldn't break into Deaton's on a regular basis to procure and then replenish his mountain ash supply. If he were lucky, maybe Deaton kept records of where he got his ash from. If that was the case, he could just go buy it from his supplier. If not, he'd just take all Deaton had and hope nobody was looking at the strange new arrival to Beacon Hills for their answers.

  
    To do his job right, tonight and every night this week he would have had to make rounds around the animal clinic to minimize risk and maximize his profit. He just didn't have time anymore. His motel room has to be Peter-proofed before he decided to make himself an unwanted guest. If he hasn't already, Stiles mind supplied in an unhelpful speculation. Either way, it has to be done tonight.

  
    He decided to take his bike. If he was seen, he'd want to get out of there faster than his human limbs can propel him. He knew Talia kept her emissary at a few arm's lengths, so he just had to be wary of outrunning an angry druid.

  
    The vet's practice was closed and quiet, which could mean any number of things. This including the very real possibility that there was a hoard of dwarves sitting in the exam room waiting for their half-clan ally to wake up from an operation. He'd never been witness to such a thing, but he wouldn't be surprised if that were the exact circumstance awaiting him inside.

  
    It was more likely Deaton just closed up for the night. But with every closer step, Stiles anxiety increased and his mind began to sour with it. It would be just like his luck for something to go wrong, deadly wrong, and he would find himself dead before he could do any good for the Hale pack. Stiles put his hand over the back door handle and willed the lock open. It was an easy thing to do. _Too easy!_ He couldn't help but continue the thought. _And now I've jinxed everything._ That's how it would go. That's how it's gone in every movie Stiles has ever seen.

  
    Instead, he made his way into the clinic with no more trouble, and found it to be entirely void of life, if he could ignore the spaced-out yowls coming from the room adjacent.

    He was half-convinced Deaton lived in a hut in the forest. If he lived in a hut, which was very in character for him, he would have to be the most well-adjusted hermit he's ever met.

  
    Deaton grated on Stiles nerves. Even though he understood the balance thing he kept preaching about, he didn't like it. The world didn't need Deaton's idea of balance, especially not Beacon Hills. When had anything strictly good ever been granted to any of his pack? When they had only been allowed weeks reprieve between each supernatural baddie and tragic death, there was little balance involved. Deaton kept the balance, alright, but it was carefully enough that the scale always weighed heavily in favor of bad. The balance was never set to a middle-ground between awful and wonderful.

    What everyone never stopped needing was a great influx of only good. Fuck balance, and fuck that wise oak bullshit he always went on about. At least Ms. Blake, the Darach, had a sense of understanding that the keeping the balance shit was just that - shit. Stiles forgot why she was the enemy for a long moment, so caught up in his hatred of Deaton until he remembered the sacrifices. She just had to take the people he cared about. If she just would have kept her grabby paws to herself and picked people less important, she could have gone about her business for all he cared. She had the right idea for the most part: gain power, kill the demon wolf, dismantle the Alpha Pack. She just had a flawed delivery. He couldn't blame her for it, not really, since she failed and dropped off the face of the earth.

  
    The metal examination room left Stiles with a sense of ease, but it was probably the fact his thoughts traveled elsewhere that he was so relaxed. It kind of felt like Deaton had wards up but there was no reason to go poking at them and fucking with his work. If Stiles had already gotten inside without activating them, he wasn't going to test his luck. It made much more sense to go through Deaton's shit and get out as quickly as possible.

  
    There was a glass jar of mountain ash under the sink, only about 12 ounces in total. Stiles continued going through every nook of the clinic. There were a lot of general supplies he could have taken but he decided against most of it. He took a few sterilized scalpels, for either bloodletting or for his time with Kate. He knew that he didn't want to just kill her and be done with it, even if that was the safest option for him. But when, in his whole life, had Stiles been safe? It was a pipe dream that Stiles let go of a long time ago. Or maybe he just wanted a plausible excuse to tell himself so he could torture Kate before her death. There was no record of delivery or acquisition anywhere he looked. Stiles spirit fell just a little as he continued through the building. He was wary to take much else, especially since nothing magical was labeled. It would just have to be guesswork on his part, and he'd probably take too much in an attempt to account for his deviation in accuracy. That was a bad idea: a very awful, terrible, bad awful idea. After all, if a surplus of magical items go missing one might be inclined to search for the magic user in question, and no thank you, he did not want that trouble to come his way before he was ready for it.

  
    It was long bike ride back to his motel - and he had begun thinking of it as his. He remembers looking at Beacon Hills from the look-out point so many times with Scott, ever since they were old enough to get there by themselves. Beacon Hills didn't just look big. It was a sprawling city, sparkling lights and tremendous cityscape with an amazingly large forest preserve just beyond and out of view. The darkness never called to him then like it did after his pseudo-sacrifice to the Nemeton.

  
    It could be argued that he was fucked long before Werewolves and Darachs and his possession. What normal teenager would actively search out a dead body for entertainment? In theory, it was normal. Teenage boys do weird stuff all the time! That's how he justified it to his dad, anyway. But the truth was he wanted to see a dead body. He wanted to look death in it's eyes. He had to see it to understand something that he didn't even know he was curious about. Laura Hale's body was a void, a crevice, an emptiness. He wasn't looking into death or at death. He was just there and Laura just was not. He couldn't figure out what about that sent him into longing. Did he want to die? He never really thought so, not counting his seldom-come trysts into the deepest recesses of his thoughts. He didn't want to die; He liked being witness to death.

  
   _I guess that's why I had no problem killing Peter the first time,_ Stiles considers, _and I kept advocating for those easy deaths that could have benefited the pack._ But his insistence didn't really make a difference in the end because true-alpha-scott was repulsed by the mere idea of murder. He was too kind. He was too inherently, sickly, naturally, unforgivably good. Stiles thinks that maybe Scott even forgave his murderer, just as the light left his eyes. He can picture it easily: Scott, laying on his back on the unforgiving cement they found him on, David's hands wrapped around his neck, keeping eye contact the whole while. David's hands tightened, fingers melting Scott's throat, a manic gleam in his eye as he breathed in the last breaths of the true alpha. Stiles could imagine Scott letting out a final choked whimper that empathetically bled his forgiveness of David to the whole universe. It would be tragic and beautiful if Scott would have been furious at David. It would have been easy to mourn him if Scott would have just fought harder, but instead Stiles had to deal with David torturing and tormenting his pack for weeks after Scott died before he got bored and moved on.

  
    And shit, he was crying now. That was unacceptable. He needed to stop being so weak. There was no good reason to be sad, and emotions just fucked up his plans for himself. He was better than tears. He was better than mourning a past that would never be the future. So he steeled himself against his own mind and pushed away his anger and grief. It was just as easy as reaching the motel and lining the room with mountain ash. It was as simple as him sitting down in the bathtub in the shitty inn, turning the water on as hot as he could stand it, and then gradually increasing the temperature as soon as he grew comfortable enough with the heat. It was as easy as watching the reddening of his skin until he gradually stopped seeing anything at all.

  
    He found it easy to drift, to be witness to the marble gleam of the tub and still not notice it was there. He wasn't thinking. He was taking a break from that for awhile. The water never got colder, but eventually his muscles were so undone and tenseless that even stepping from the bath was a slow, troublesome endeavor.

  
    He was boneless, pouring the remnants of his shower all over the smooth tiles of the floor and foregoing the effort of grabbing a towel. He knew he wouldn't fall and there would be quite a mess to clean up come morning, but he was finally tired. He wouldn't have to think himself to sleep tonight. He treads lightly out of the bathroom, over the carpet of the main room, and into the sterilized sheets of his bed. It was good. He was good. And he slept.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's no such thing as a filler chapter. everything is relevant or it wouldn't need to be delved into


	3. Not A Vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll erase all traces of your scent around Kate's body if you can get me some fucking Adderall."  
> Peter makes a 'not bad' face and Stiles continues, "It's a pretty good deal, you know, since you insist on being there. What if they keep pet werewolves to use them just for that purpose? They might force them to track the scents until they find whoever did the deed. That would suck for you and your pack, right? Murdering an Argent in cold blood is frowned upon, or so I hear."  
> He might be overselling it, but he doesn't care. If Peter declines, he doesn't lose anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow? the update only 2 days later? this is not in character for me to be honest.

     Stiles awoke to an incessant pounding. It took a few minutes of addled fumbling from his bed before it registered that someone was knocking at the door. He almost overlooked his state of undress in his haste to look out the peep-hole and identify his visitor.

  
    "Oh, Peter." Stiles greeted, voice giving away his disinterest through the closed door.

  
    "You sound absolutely enthralled, Stefan." Peter spoke, "The polite thing to do when you have a guest is invite them in."

  
    "We'll see. Just a second." Stiles made his way to the mostly empty dresser underneath the television at the front of the room. The whole place really gave off the vibe that it was from a place outside of time. It was the motel TV in every movie, with two or three channels available on the outdated box. He guessed it might have some truth to it, but never having spent a lot of time in different motels, he couldn't be sure. Technically, he might even be out of time, in the strictest sense. It was too complicated to think about with an awaiting wolf at his door.

  
    He pulled on the grey slacks and the white button up, not because he was trying to impress Peter, even though that could be the easiest way to interpret it. Maybe if Peter though he was dressing up for him he would assume something about Stiles that was way off from his true self. Peter would assume Stiles was overcompensating for him, or that he was used to dressing like this. Both were untrue. That would give Stiles a small advantage over him and he gleefully ran a hand through his hair. He really needed to do laundry if he were honest with himself. Since these were his last clean pieces of clothing, it would have to be today. 

  
    He finished tucking the shirt in, making sure to line up the buttons of the shirt with the button on the pants, and opened the door to find Peter walking forward with a hilarious intensity.

  
    It would have been scary in some other circumstance, but Stiles had begun anticipating his bouncing off the mountain ash line. So when it happened and Peter let out a short yelp and fell away, Stiles couldn't control his raucous laughter.

  
    "Oh man, hey, that was great," Stiles wiped a fake tear from underneath his eye. "Welcome to my home, please come in."

  
    Peter gave Stiles an annoyed grimace and an entirely fake laugh, "Ha. Very clever, thank you. I'd be delighted to come in."    

  
    He looked at the floor underneath the door and implored Stiles with the raise of an eyebrow.

  
    "Not a chance." Stiles confirmed whatever was going through the werewolf's head. "What do you want?"

  
    "I followed Derek out last night."

  
    "Congratulations, creeperwolf." The nickname flew off his tongue with ease, and really it was more than accurate even more than a decade in the past.

  
    Peter tried to level him with a glare. Stiles just raised an eyebrow back at him, the same way he was used to Hale's doing. When Peter dropped the pretense and began speaking again, he assumed the eyebrow did the trick and filed that away for future interactions with the Hale pack.

  
    "I followed him," Peter's eye grew intense, as if warning him not to interrupt again, "And found him with the Argent bitch in less than ideal circumstances."

  
    "You mean what, exactly?" Stiles asked, even though he was mostly sure what Peter meant. He couldn't allow Peter to dance around conversations if he had to listen to him.

  
    "They were in the process of having sex."

  
    Stiles wanted to laugh at the way Peter awkwardly divulged that bit of information but he was again overcome by anger on behalf of Derek and disgust on his own. He was picturing Derek's face as he gave him the last hug he'd ever give him. He was so soft and so kind, even after everything he'd been through. That, and he wouldn't hesitate to protect what was his. Stiles tried to be like that.

  
    "Okay, and what did you do?" Stiles demanded.

  
    Peter put his hands up in mock surrender and widened his eyes comically.

  
    "Stefan, you wound me. I just confirmed your story and left."

  
    Stiles let himself take in Peter for a moment, trying to figure out what exactly he expected Stiles to do next. He was wearing a casual cotton t-shirt and jeans. Peter's hair was short and dark, combed back with what had to be expensive product. Stiles knows, because he tried to replicate the results on his own head with gel and with mousse, and it never turned out looking so fluffy. Stiles distantly wondered what time it was before remembering he was supposed to be observing Peter. By now it had to have been too long to wait more before responding anyway, so he barreled on with another question.

  
    "What are you going to do next?"

  
    "I was thinking of giving you her location, honestly," Peter mused, "Then I could sit back, keep my hands clean, and know my nephew was safe, and what more could anyone ask for?"

  
    Amusement flitted through Stiles. Peter had never been good, really. He knew Peter had already been manipulative enough to have gotten Paige killed. But Stiles real question was on why Peter appeared so ready to give up the kill to him? Was he not yet an active murderer? He was Talia's second by now: The Pack Enforcer, so that couldn't be it. Maybe by keeping himself out of the Argent murder he assumed it wouldn't cause the rest of the Argent family to retaliate. But Stiles knew better than that.

  
    "It's not like the Argents would know that a werewolf killed her," Stiles said, "just keep your claws in check. You could do that."

  
    When Peter didn't deign to respond, Stiles continued.

  
    "Easily. You could do it without lifting a claw. Literally." Then he started laughing at his incredible humor. "Come on, it was funny!" He defended when Peter barely lifted his lips in amusement.

  
    "Do you not want to avenge your pack, then? Was that nothing more than a ruse?"

  
    Stiles had forgotten again. His head was a mess and he knew, distantly, that it was his own fault because he hadn't even been trying to manage his ADHD. He ran his hand through his hair and down his face and then slumped back into himself while keeping his position in the doorway.

  
    "No, you're right, yeah my bad, thanks. That's definitely what I plan to do, I just figured it would be justice if anyone killed her. She just has to die, you know? That's very important. I'd rather do it though, just so you know, even though it's just more important she dies. Like, if I die? Please, yeah go right ahead. Kill her. That's a good middle ground, right? Who doesn't like a good murder!"

  
    The manic grin that slid over Stiles face didn't reach his eyes. That didn't escape Peter's notice at all.

  
    "So, address? Directions if it's out in the preserve." Stiles demanded.

  
    "Sure, I'll accompany you." Peter gestured to his clothes, "You might want to change."

  
    "No thank you, to both, actually. What's the second option?"

  
    "You can track a human hunter without the advantage of werewolf sight, smell, and hearing." Peter leaned in as far as the mountain ash barrier would allow, "and I don't give you the address."

  
    Stiles wasn't just annoyed. He was angry. He didn't like it, but it cut down on time. He could leave Beacon Hills sooner and move on with his life.

  
    "Fucking fine then. Give me a minute. That okay, your fucking highness?"

  
    Stiles managed to reign in his emotions so as to not stomp across the motel room from the open door like a petulant child.

  
    "Ah, yes, that's quite alright." Peter was grinning. Stiles could hear it in his tone and the annoyance in him flared.

     There was no point in shutting the wolf out because he would be able to hear everything he did anyway. So Stiles pocketed enough mountain ash that he could call upon it 2 to 3 times easily, put one of the hunting knives he bought at Wal Mart on his ankle and the other on his forearm before reconsidering the white shirt. It would be too easy to see the weapon through the sleeve. So he stripped the shirt off, forgetting entirely that this Peter had never before seen his wrecked torso. So when Stiles looked down and saw the thick scar that he made trying to kill himself and the Nogitsune, he looked Peter in the eye and didn't yield any of his power. He wasn't ashamed and he needed Peter to know that without a doubt.

  
    There were a number of other scars marring his skin. There were a number of small pox-shaped marks over his forearm that were given to him by a few angry pixies he had to keep knocking away from Melissa, who was tending to Lydia's injuries one night. Once Scott arrived with the iron, they were no longer a problem, but the marks never left.

  
    David left multiple permanent claw marks in him. There were 4 perfect puncture marks that wrapped into his rib cage on both sides from being grabbed from behind. On his back, where Peter did not and would not see, were two lines of 5 claws, running from his shoulders to his lower back. Those were still red and angry, but they were healing nicely into more scars. Most beautifully, in Stiles opinion, was a clean, thin, already healed, perfectly straight line that went down the middle of his chest, starting below his collar bone and ending at his belly button.

  
    Derek drew that for him during the whole debacle with David. Stiles had come home to the house devoid of his father after a session with his new alpha. Of course, it wasn't that simple, and he could leave whenever he wanted, but he couldn't leave the wolves of the pack with David! It was unfair and inhumane. He just planned to stick it out, but then David decided that to punish the pack he would punish Stiles.

  
    So he came home, the ugly claws forever imprinted into his skin just fresh, and called Derek. It was a control thing. If David was going to use his skin like a canvas, then he was going to as well. His body is his own. If it was anybody's to wreck it was his own.

  
    Derek understood. He always understood, even if he didn't agree. So he carved a beautiful line into Stiles, amongst all of the ugly reminders of how he failed his pack and how he failed Scott, even if none of that was logical and doing it would change nothing.

  
    With the black button up securely tucked in, knives and mountain ash in place, he walked over the mountain ash line and the lock audibly clicked behind him with a wave of his hand.

  
    "Oh," Stiles let out a breath, forgetting himself in his thoughts. He meant to conceal his magic until it was necessary to reveal, but there was nothing to be done now. He fell into step beside Peter and fell silent.

  
    "Do you have drug connects?" Stiles blurted, cursing himself. "No," He interrupted himself, trying to defend the question, "like Adderall. I could use some. And it's not a weakness, so don't try to get the upperhand over me using it."

  
    "Drug addiction is quite a serious affliction. It's very much a weakness, Stefan." Stiles decided to drop it for the time being. Begging was, in fact, weak, so he wouldn't do that.

  
    They reach the parking lot and Peter waltzes over to a shiny dark grey car. Stiles just assumed they would be walking wherever they needed to be.

  
    "Well?" Peter opened the drivers side door.

  
    "I already agreed to come, so..." Stiles opened the door and sat gently down, buckling in, grumbling, "Nothing to lose from locking myself into an enclosed space with a stranger."

  
    "That's the spirit." Peter laughs, starting the car and pulling out of the lot of the inn. The drive is silent for a long time but Stiles can stifle the urge to talk. He watches the familiar scenes from the passenger window with the dull rumble of the engine as white noise. Peter drives closer to the poorer district of Beacon Hills and then pulls into a McDonalds.

  
    Stiles steals a glance at the dashboard to find that it's only just after 9am. At least he was on a day off, he considers. Stiles hadn't grabbed any money from his stash, which was pretty dumb on his part. He hadn't considered anything after bearing his scars in front of Peter. He was too easily shaken up.

  
    "Do you want something?" Peter asked.

  
    "You paying?" Stiles opened his body language up, putting one arm along the door.

  
    "I'll pay." Peter informs him, "You're doing me a favor after all."

  
    Stiles snorts, "Yeah, right. A large coffee with 5 sugar and 7 cream, and like 3 chocolate chip cookies."

  
    Peter tells their orders to the person manning the drive through and it's fine until the dude replies _We don't sell cookies here._

  
    Stiles feels his heart rate spike up monumentally and by the look Peter gives him, it's a complete over reaction.

  
    "Oh, man, I really wanted cookies. That's embarrassing. Can't blame a guy for trying right? Just the coffee is fine."

  
    When does McDonalds start selling cookies? After August 2005, obviously. It's a really insignificant detail and nothing to freak out over, but his heart doesn't slow down right away.

  
    "Ha, ha, this," Stiles points at his chest, "Ridiculous am I right? You'd think it would listen better. Shut up, shut up. It's inconsiderate, really."

  
    "So, Kate." Stiles prompts as they drive away from the pick-up window. "I was thinking you just show me around and I'll stay for awhile and then come back and do it later. Nothing beats good reconnaissance."

  
    "I agree, but I think we should take advantage of an opportunity if we get it."

  
    "We?"

  
    "We."

  
    A long second passes before Stiles opens his mouth again.

  
    "I have ADHD."

  
    "Oh, so, is that what the Adderall is for? Why not just pick up your prescription, Stefan?"

  
    "It's complicated." Stiles grunts, choosing simplicity over an extensive lie.

  
    "How long has it been since you've taken any?"

  
    "It's been weeks. So long! I can barely remember what concentration is." Stiles exaggerates with a deep sigh before breaking out in laughter.

  
    "Well that is unfortunate." Peter allows, chuckling a little in good humor. Stiles is almost sure it's fake, but it keeps the conversation light instead of desperate, so he is thankful for the effort on Peter's part.

  
    "I'll erase all traces of your scent around Kate's body if you can get me some fucking Adderall."

  
    Peter makes a 'not bad' face and Stiles continues, "It's a pretty good deal, you know, since you insist on being there. What if they keep pet werewolves to use them just for that purpose? They might force them to track the scents until they find whoever did the deed. That would suck for you and your pack, right? Murdering an Argent in cold blood is frowned upon, or so I hear."

  
    He might be overselling it, but he doesn't care. If Peter declines, he doesn't lose anything. But Peter agrees, and they lapse into small talk as Peter continues driving the car through Beacon Hills.  



	4. Factual Errors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's grin was feral, "I imagine you intend to enjoy yourself before ending her life?"
> 
> "I intend to cause her a little suffering." He confirmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explicit violence!! not a joke!! very bad shit in this chapter. i put murder husbands in the tag for a reason please please please don't get queasy on me. expect the worst thing u could possibly imagine so that you are underwhelmed in case you're nervous about it

    "Not exactly what I expected." Stiles commented, staring blankly up at the white two-story house that Peter brought him to.

  
    "Little is ever as we expect it to be." Peter shrugged, not looking away from the house. "And anyway, what did you expect? An ancient castle with a moat and alligators? Perhaps a storm cloud overhead? Lightning crashing and thunder roaring? Would that fit your expectations?"

  
    Stiles could picture all of that vividly.

  
    "More like a roaring fire marking the perimeter, and like, hellhounds pacing around the house. Maybe even manacles and a full torture chamber. That seems more like her."

  
    "Why don't we stay focused?" Peter said.

  
    "Fuck you." Stiles responded. "You started it."

  
    Peter grinned at him, showing all his teeth. Of course, everything he was doing was calculated.

  
    "So how many people are in there?" Stiles asked.

  
    Peter took a long second to consider, eyes narrowing in concentration. Wind whipped around the pair, blowing Peter's hair astray. It felt good. It was relieving, like the earth was taking a deep breath in anticipation. Stiles did the same. The air drew in between his lips in a silent vacuum. He exhaled all of his calm in preparation for battle.

  
    "Four people inside." Peter informed him.

  
    They caught each others eyes and a silent conversation passed between them. Peter's eyes hardened when he saw the resolve in Stiles. His shoulders were squared, his body still, his face closed off completely.

  
    "You up for it?" Stiles asked. He was ready to go in without asking Peter, but figured that offering a choice would make him seem more agreeable. His mind was already lining itself into battle formation. He was already assessing the risks, considering the hunters inside, allowing for mistakes and coming up with ways to combat anything that might go wrong.

  
    Peter nodded, "Nobody is guarding the doors. One heartbeat on the second floor, three on the first, all located in that," he pointed to the corner of the house by the alleyway, "general area. I suggest just going through the front door."

  
    "Okay, I'll do that. You just climb through one of the upstairs windows. I can meet you in the middle."

  
    Stiles waved a hand in the direction of the house and felt the mountain ash barrier dissolve. He tried not to think about how unnecessary Peter's involvement was. Stiles could easily take down four hunters who weren't expecting company. It just wasn't exciting enough. It didn't feel like the crescendo that came before victory. It felt like the static white noise of an ending.

  
    Stiles knocked on the front door and waited patiently as, he assumed, somebody grabbed a gun and made their way hesitantly to the front door.

  
    "Hello, sir!" Stiles began, a smile on his face, "Have you heard the good news?"

  
    The hunter grimaced in disgust, which Stiles totally understood. Visitors could be an annoyance, even when they were expected.

  
    "Look," the man began, "I don't care what you're selling. I literally am not interested in anyth-"

  
    Stiles had been allowing his face to screw up in embarrassment during the man's talk. But he figured that getting the door shut in his face was likely to happen in the next few seconds.

  
    "I'm so sorry, please," Stiles said, interrupting the man, bringing the hand without a knife to the back of his neck, "have a good day."

  
    It was so unnecessary. It was like a ridiculous villain monologue. It was so exaggerated and so, so unnecessary. But Stiles wasn't really feeling right. He wasn't feeling like it was real, like it was even happening. It was just something he felt like he had to do at the time. But since his window of opportunity was closing...

  
    The hunter had kept one hand on the door the whole time, even after opening it wide enough that his whole arm was away from his body. It was a stupid move. It kept his whole arm away from his body. How could a gun protect you if you left your whole body open to attack?

  
    Stiles knew the man was probably thinking that having his hand on the door was a smart move, considering the mountain ash ring that had been protecting the house. He was thinking that the quicker he could shut the door, the safer he would be.

  
    Stiles unsheathed his knife with a practiced movement and in slid into his hand. He had the hunter's throat torn open in less than a second. It was glorious. His eyes bugged open and his hand went to his throat, as if to ask himself, was he really about to die? It was disbelief and denial. The hunter's mouth opened and closed a few times, barely able to gurgle out a warning to his former companions. Behind him, Stiles noticed another man.

  
    The man was steadying a gun at him. Stiles grabbed the dying man in front of him by his throat and walked forward, forcing the man to stumble backwards. He gripped directly over the other man's weak hand and the warm, wet blood flowing from the neck wound coated his own wrist and ran down his arm. Stiles couldn't help but to squeeze tighter as he stepped forward, feeling the man's life leaving him quickly with every inch.

  
    They didn't quite make it to the man holding the gun before the hunter he was holding fell, heavy and clearly dead, to the ground. He had been shot a few times and was an effective shield for a short time.

  
    "Unfortunate." Stiles heard himself say to the other man. "Put the gun down."

  
    The hunter decided that, no, he would not put the gun down, letting himself pull the trigger again, aiming at Stiles head.

  
    It would have been an easy shot at such close proximity, but Stiles crouched down as the gun went off and unsheathed his ankle knife, throwing it at the man. His accuracy wasn't that good, but he had magic. He usually hit the target 6/10 times when he was trying. It wasn't easy for him to improve, and he knew he relied on his magic too often. It could be a serious problem if he was stuck without it. But, he still used his magic to be sure the hunter was hit when he threw the knife.

  
    It impaled directly into his eye and Stiles felt giddy with the successful death. A laugh bubbled up from deep within him as he moved forward and took the knife from the hole in the hunter's head. He was wiping it on the fabric of the dead man's jeans when Peter came from a room adjacent with another man impaled on his claws, feebly struggling to keep attached to his life. 

  
    "Kate?" He inquired of Peter.

  
    "She was upstairs." He answered.

  
    "Was?" Stiles blanched. Did she escape? Did Peter kill her? That was a crushing disappointment. They no longer had the element of surprise. The panic seized him completely before Peter spoke again. 

  
    "She's waiting for us in the kitchen." 

    "You couldn't just say that?" Stiles took in a relieved breath. _What an asshole,_ Stiles seethed.

  
    Peter threw the man he was supporting into the wall and then sauntered over and plucked one of the knives from Stiles hand. He walked over to the hunter he just deposited on the floor and proceeded to stab him stomach multiple times. The police would define it as overkill. They would assume that whoever did this was filled to the brim with violence, barely able to control themselves, all mad energy.

  
    "Couldn't keep your claws out of him, huh?" Stiles joked as Peter finished covering the evidence of each claw with a stab with the knife. Stiles had the urge to stab clean through the man, and he had gotten far in his life by following his instincts, so he allowed himself to follow through. He approached as Peter was pulling away and brought the knife he still had right into the crevice of his collarbone, where it meets the neck, and pressed the tip gently into the skin. He barely applied pressure at first, simply studying the man that was not going to hold onto his life much longer.

  
    "How do you feel?" He asked, looking right into the man's eyes. The guy just continued lying there, a variety of emotions flitting through his face before he set on cold, hard, stillness.

  
    Stiles continued looking him in the eye and he plunged the knife into the man. The man's life fleeting away, awareness fading - even that didn't satisfy.

  
    "Huh." Stiles commented, rising from his crouch. "That was unsatisfying. Lead the way, please."

  
    He remained impassive as he followed Peter into the kitchen. The room was large, a kitchen and dining room combined. The table in the middle was wooden, and sturdy. Kate sat slumped over it on a chair.

  
    "Head wound?" Stiles inquired.

  
    "It was the easiest way to subdue her at the time." Peter defended.

  
    "Hey, no big deal," Stiles lied, "It's just annoying. Now we have to wait for her to wake up."

  
    Peter's grin was feral, "I imagine you intend to enjoy yourself before ending her life?"

  
    "I intend to cause her a little suffering." He confirmed.

  
    He was a little nervous to keep her at the house while waiting for her to wake up. Anything could go wrong. Anybody could come through to see her, and the most likely candidate would be more hunters or allies. It didn't matter how he felt though, because he had not prepared a secondary location. Stiles had to consider what restraints he could use. Did he really want to go around the house looking for rope or for chain? Did he want to rip up cloth? It seemed like a lot of time to waste.

  
    "Here, can you hold her hands in place for a second?" Stiles walked over to a knife block and pulled two huge knives out. He never really knew what the role of those kind of knives were in cooking. Was it just for big stuff, like watermelon or like whole pig carcasses? Why did all kitchen knife sets come with such a huge variety of knives? He could do pretty much everything he needed with just two medium sized knives, one serrated and one not.

  
    He walked back over to Kate and grabbed both hands, splaying them out on the table in front of her, flat, palm down. Peter stood beside her slumped figure and grasped her wrists. Hopefully it wasn't enough to disturb her unconsciousness yet.

  
    With both of her hands in place, Stiles felt through the tops of her hands, trying to gauge as best he could where the tendons and bones were. He was lucky knives were so flat, otherwise he might have a problem.

  
    He was dimly aware that the pain of one knife going through her hand could be enough to return her to consciousness, so he shared a look with Peter.

  
    "I'll try to be fast." Peter just nodded at him.

  
    He brought the knife down from high above his head in order to impale it into the table as far as he could manage. Kate awoke with a scream, but he could feel that at least 3/4 of an inch of knife was embedded in the table.

  
    Stiles did the same quickly to the other hand. Even though Peter had werewolf strength, he figured safe was better than sorry.

  
    "Hey, so, shut up." Stiles greeted. Kate's face was hardened, angry. Stiles was angry in response. He wanted her crying, begging, not determined and defiant.

  
    "I know you're a little unphased, Katiecakes, but we still have a lot of time together, so don't get too comfy." Stiles crooned.

  
    Stiles looked to Peter when she did, and Peter gave him an appraising look.

  
    "It's all you," Peter said, "By all means, have fun. From what I've heard, you've earned it."

  
    "Earned what?" Kate grated, teeth clenched tightly together.

  
    Stiles answered by moving behind her and wrapping his fist in her hair, pulling her body just far enough from the table he knew by her gasp that the knives were digging into her injured flesh.

  
    "Katie, you've earned everything, the whole world. You're such a good little soldier."

  
    He punctuated his sentence by slamming her head forward back onto the table. There was a sickening crack.

  
    "What do you want?" Kate asked, voice slurring from the impact. It was probably a calculated move. Life was all a game to everybody present. He almost forgot Peter was there until she decided to try to manipulate his actions with her own forced weakness.

  
    "Kate. I just," Stiles walked away and moved where she could see him, "I just don't care. I don't care about anything you've done, what you're going to do. You're just going to die. You're going to die tonight, how do you feel about that?"

  
    Kate didn't open her mouth. He could see the wheels moving behind her eyes. She allowed herself to smirk, bringing her arms up together. The knives clattered back onto the table and even through the blood sluggishly pooling out of her hands, she picked one up in challenge.

  
    She looked between the two of them a few times and then decided Peter, who had not yet done anything to her knowledge, was the more likely of them to help her out of the situation.

  
    "You're insane." She says to Stiles, then turns back to Peter. "He's insane."

  
    A look of panic crosses her features and Peter doesn't do much more than raise his eyebrows in appraisal.

  
    "Oh?" He teases, "I think I realized something similar when we met."

  
    Stiles shared a smile with him, "That obvious?"

  
    "Kate here seems to agree, it's very easy to tell."

  
    Stiles levels Kate to the floor with his own version of the cruciatus.

  
    "Shut up." Stiles tells her again. He knows it's as involuntary as flinching, but that doesn't change how angry he is at her for daring to open her mouth when she deserves every bit of pain coursing through her.

  
    "Hold her arms behind her back." Stiles demands of Peter.

  
    "Ask nicely if you want something, Stefan." Stiles can't help but laugh at his gall, letting go of his rage in exchange for the control of his emotions.

  
    "Of course," he said. Kate was trying to support her weight on her arms enough to get up but she kept falling back onto herself. Stiles continued, "Where are my manners?"

  
    Stiles walked over to her and kicked her stupid fucking arms out from under her. She hit the floor with a groan.

  
    "Peter, could you please come pick her up and hold her arms behind her back? I would really appreciate the gesture."

  
    He complied and Kate was soon standing, mostly immobile. He frowned at her as she panted for breath. She didn't look broken.

  
    "Hold one of her arms out away from you," Stiles added as an after thought, "please."

  
    "Why, of course." Peter preened, holding it out by the elbow. Stiles considered.

  
    "I don't think I have enough room. Could you break her elbow?"

  
    Peter moved his hand to her elbow and he just clenched it between his fingers. The bones breaking were a soft grinding noise and Kate let out a pained whine, trying to wrench herself from Peter.

  
    "Cool, thanks." Stiles was unaffected.

  
    Kate's arm was held out in front of him again, Peter's hand closer to the shoulder now that she couldn't bend her elbow away from him.

  
    Stiles set it on fire.

  
    As nice as her screams were, he couldn't put up a ward against sound. He wouldn't be able to hear anyone coming if that were the case.

  
    "Is anybody hearing her?" He asked Peter.

  
    "Nobody even owns the houses around here." He answers.

  
    He ended the fire on her arms, which had creeped from just the wrist to the bottom of her bicep.

  
    "At least shes finally crying." He tells Peter.

  
    "Why?" Kate asks.

  
    "Why." Stiles repeats.

  
    "Why? Why? Why?" Kate repeats, snot dripping down her face, tears cascading, as if on autopilot.

  
    With a laugh at the childhood game he's begun playing he repeats her questions back at her.

  
    Stiles gets close to her and says, "No teeth." He goes to reach into her mouth and she still bites his fingers. He brings the handle of his knife right into her teeth before he can think. At least three shatter with the impact.

  
    She's spitting up blood when Peter throws her to the floor.

  
    "I don't really feel like getting bloody, thank you." He explains.

  
    Stiles shrugs in response. "This isn't enough."

  
    "Bloodlust not yet sated?" Peter teases, "Well I could get creative for you."

  
    "Go ahead." Stiles steps backs and watches Peter walk around the kitchen. Peter opens a few cupboard and looks around before settling on a few items. He has a container of salt and a ceramic plate that he immediately shatters over her back in a lazy throw.

  
    "Does she need her tongue for anything?" He asks, stalking closer to her.

  
    Kate starts shaking her head no and crawling away, completely ignoring the fact that one of her limbs is charred and useless, just like she left Derek's family. He shakes his head no and can't help his own mouth from speaking.

  
    "You're going to burn, Kate. You're going to be burnt alive. I'm going to break your legs and set you on fire, just like you were going to do to them."

  
    He watches Peter force her mouth open, pull her tongue out, and use his claw to sever it from the confines out her body. While blood bubbles out of her mouth he considers.

  
    "Maybe you won't burn alive. Nobody is going to save you Kate. You're going to die here, covered in the blood of all the lives you've ruined."

  
    Peter pours a steady stream of salt into her mouth that falls out clumped and covered in blood. She's still making loud, pained noises.

  
    "I hate you." He tells her as Peter drops her to the floor again.

  
    "I hate you so much. You ruin everything you touch. You could have ruined Derek's life."

  
    "But now you're just a fling who died tragically." He crouches over her as she shakes and sobs, wrecked. He runs a hand through her hair a couple times, petting her in a soothing manner.

  
    "She's not going to last much longer." Peter tells him redundantly.

  
    Stiles moves away and gathers both his knives and re-sheaths them. He sets fire to a few different places in the house from where he stands, from enough places that it will definitely burn most of the house to the ground. It starts to smoke and Peter wrinkles his nose.

  
    "Stefan?"

  
    Stiles then sets fire to Kate. The fire blazes and if she weren't already close to dead he was sure she would have lost consciousness anyway. It's so pleasant to behold. He doesn't feel relief, actually. He still feels angry. He skin sizzles and the smell of burnt flesh reaches his nose.

  
    He's suddenly scared that it's not enough.

  
    "Shit!" He exclaims, picking up a dining room chair. He bashes her head through the flames. He doesn't stop because he's still not sure it's enough. He keeps smashing the chair over her head as it gets hot and uncomfortable in his hands.

  
    Arms wrap around his and squeeze his wrists until they release the chair in reflex.

  
    "We have to leave now." Peter commands him. "The house is burning, Stefan. The house is burning."

  
    Stiles comes back to himself and spins to look at Peter, panicked. He grabs one of Peter hands and races in front of him back through the front door. He starts to run down the street to where Peter parked his car before they walked to the house, trying to outrun the flames and outrun exposure. Peter suddenly stills and Stiles jerks to a stop because he still hasn't let go.

  
    "Peter, come on." He demands, turning around again and desperately trying to pull Peter with him. Peter's not even looking his way.

  
    "Well, this is unexpected." Peter is looking across the street with an expression Stiles can't decipher.

  
    "What-" Stiles begins, confused. He follows Peter's gaze with furrowed eyebrows and finds himself looking at Derek, who looks ready to rush into the burning house, so stricken with grief it's almost tangible in the air.

  
    "Well, shit." Stiles lets go of Peter and slaps his hand over his face in exasperation. _This is going to be a fucking disaster,_ he thinks.

  
    He's right about that, at least. In despair, Derek barrel runs towards the house, which, by magically induced fire, was cradled entirely in flames by then. Peter runs and meets him feet before the door, tackling him to the ground with a great crash.

  
    "Derek, Derek," Stiles hears Peter yelling, "She's dead. No one in there is alive. Stop this, you're going to hurt yourself."

  
    "I don't care, I don't care!" Derek is sobbing and fighting to get out of his uncle's hold, "Kate! Kate, oh god! Let go, please, Peter, please let go I can help."

  
    After a few minutes of struggling he can't help but stop fighting and he dissolves into a pile in his Uncle's arms. He's sobbing bloody murder. Stiles feels like crying himself.

  
    "We need to go. Someone's going to see the fire." Stiles tries to say it without emotion but some has to bleed through.

  
    Peter gathers Derek into his arms and they make their way after Stiles, who started walking away as soon as he knew Peter was listening. Stiles wonders if he should stay in town long enough to explain himself or not. It was going to be a long night and it wasn't even late afternoon yet.  
        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i listened to tear you apart by she wants revenge so many times no lie but for my first written torture it's p great if i do say so myself 
> 
> if i do say so myself  
> if i do say so myself
> 
> i was so disappointed in myself for going with peter's plan - "just take the opportunity if it's there" the torture could have been so much better if stiles was just like "no, actually... let's set up a whole fucking load of shit first so i can torture her for hours, or days, or weeks" because stiles totally was unsatisfied. he wanted more blood. he wanted it slow, drawn out, and so much more fucked up than it was...but i have no control over myself literally so i apologize
> 
> i hope it was ok for you guys


	5. I Want More To Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a place in him where he recognized he should be more empathetic for Derek, but it wasn't the time to feel pity. He didn't have it in him to give away another part of himself to Derek. It was hard enough to leave once. He had to shake the thoughts off physically to continue on.
> 
> "Kate was a hunter."  
> "She wasn't like her family, you fucking stupidfucking-" Derek anguished aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short update because leaving you guys with that big of a cliff hanger wasn't v nice. i'm working on a steter secret-santa fic right now so the next update might not be for like a month if you guys just wanna wait till the next update of reg length to read this i'll totally understand

    Stiles almost didn't remember to wave the mountain ash line back together and will away Peter's scent from the burning wreck of what was once a house. It would have been easy to just forget his promise, but there was nothing to gain from breaking Peter's trust.

  
    It's better than love, his victory over Kate, even though it's making his stomach crawl around inside of him. He feels like he's going to puke and jump out of his skin at the same time. Derek's crying in the back seat of Peter's car has quieted. Though, his pungent misery hasn't seemed to abate. The drive away looks the same as before but Stiles can tell something irreparable has been done. He has literally re-written time. If only he could put that on a resume: _so successful I even altered reality!_ The car pulled up in front of the inn after a blur of time that Stiles can't remember passing.

  
    "You're going to remove the barrier and we are going to spend some time together, Stefan," Peter gritted through clenched teeth, "Do you understand?"

  
    Stiles didn't want to know what Peter was thinking by bringing Derek and himself to his home. This was Stiles territory. It worked in his favor, so it didn't matter what Peter wanted. He could just bide his time.

  
    "I understand you won't take no for an answer." Stiles supplied.

  
    Peter grabbed Derek as he vacated the backseat in what could have been considered a supportive embrace. Stiles knew, coming from Peter, that roughly translated as a 'you aren't going anywhere' grip. Appearances aside, Derek wouldn't be able to take a step away without immediate and punishing retaliation from Peter. Stiles wondered if maybe Peter would knock Derek out if it came to that.

  
    He complied with Peter's wishes, unlocking the door, and following them both into his room without complaint. Peter walked Derek over to the bed and Stiles called the mountain ash from his pocket before he could so much as take two steps away. It surrounded the bed entirely.

  
    "So here's how this is going to go," Stiles walked past the bed and the too-firm chair that occupied the far corner of the room, not staying in one place too long, "I am going to talk and you both are going to listen to me. Then, I'm going to leave this room, leave this town, and we are never going to see each other again."

  
    He didn't bother to wait for a response as Peter considered silently and Derek adjusted himself on the bed.

  
    "Pay attention!" Stiles demanded, "I want to get this over with."

  
    "I imagine. So?" Peter prompted.

  
    "So, Derek," Stiles addressed, "Your girlfriend, well, is there a term for widow when you weren't married?"

  
    "Stefan," Peter warned, voice firm, muscles tensing as if he were prepared to launch himself into the barrier, completely careless of any magical retaliation.

  
    Stiles pointed a finger at him, "Shut up!"

  
    There was a place in him where he recognized he should be more empathetic for Derek, but it wasn't the time to feel pity. He didn't have it in him to give away another part of himself to Derek. It was hard enough to leave once. He had to shake the thoughts off physically to continue on.

  
    "Kate was a hunter."

  
    "She wasn't like her family, you fucking stupidfucking-" Derek anguished aloud.

  
    "She was going to burn your whole family alive in like a month's time." Stiles steeled himself, "She was planning to trap all of you in your house, block off all your stupid secret exits, line the house in mountain ash, and revel in it. She wanted you to die. I stopped her."

  
    Peter took note that Stiles didn't implicate him at all. He was less grateful than he was suspicious.

  
    "You don't know that!" Derek protested.

  
    "Do you feel badly, Derek?" Stiles taunted, "You know that grief you're feeling right now? You think her death was tragic? Imagine the whole Hale pack dying in her place, because that was the only other option. Could you have forgiven yourself for that? I don't think you could have. She played you, Derek."

  
    Stiles paused to give Derek time to think. He was still sitting on the bed, but his eyes were flickering dangerously between a supernatural blue and his normal hazel. After a few moments his face fell and the supernatural hue disappeared entirely.

  
    "She was a pedophile. She was sick and depraved, a total and complete psychopath."

  
    "Shut up." Derek whimpered pathetically from his place on the bed. He wouldn't look away from his hands clasped together on his lap. It was breaking Stiles heart to watch him. He was never there to see Derek try coming to terms with what Kate did. It was practically palpable in the way Derek began to close his posture and wring his hands that Stiles was witnessing the first of Derek's supposed revelations of guilt.

  
    "No. Do not, even for a second, think on it. It wasn't your fault. Nothing was your fault." Stiles tried, "Derek, listen, please, I'm so sorry." In the wide eyed Stiles, tears were furiously beginning to form. He tried blinking them away before they fell.

  
    "Who are you?" Derek asked, eyes wide with the same unshed tears.

  
    "I am not going to harm any of the Hale pack. I never intended to, not even emotionally. This is the truth. I just wanted the world to be safe from her and people like her." Stiles knew that at any point either Derek or Peter could just howl for reinforcements. The pack would come running for their family, probably literally, and Stiles wouldn't stand a chance.

  
    "Shit," Stiles deadpanned, "Gerard." He began a frenzied pacing, both werewolves eyes following his movement. "Gerard, Gerard, Gerard, holy fucking shit Gerard."

  
    "Kate's dad?" Derek questioned. Peter looked sharply at his nephew, willing the pieces into place.

  
    "Am I to assume he also forgoes the hunter code?" Peter said.

  
    "Yeah he really fucked me up one time. I was still a kid back then, well, I was more of a kid than I am now, but I was properly new to everything supernatural and I had just started to run with my pack. He and his goons got me one night, just snatched me out of a huge crowd like it was nothing, just to send a message to the pack. It was so fucked up, and D-" He cut himself off quickly to not give away the whole truth, "And our Alpha, he was a born wolf, he told me once I was back, he said that it was the worst thing Gerard could have done. Humans are the most important parts of the pack, the anchors to humanity, the stability, the-"

  
    "We know," Peter nodded, "Our pack teaches that, as well."

  
    Stiles just nodded, wringing his hands akin to Derek and flailing disastrously. His hand smacked into the television and he winced.

  
    "He's just bad, a no holds-barred kind of guy. Which would be fine with me if he wasn't killing innocent were's, you know? He won't lock you in your house and burn you to death. He'll probably manipulate his way in, oozing his psychopath slime all over everything you care about. Or he'll come with a veritable militia, loaded up with rare form of Wolfsbane. He properly hates were-everything."

  
    "Fuck, shit." Stiles tried, "Well he's probably going to come to investigate her death."

  
    Maybe he should stay, at least until he was sure the pack was safe. Do timelines re-establish themselves naturally? In the Doctor Who-niverse, timelines tend to do that. Everything is as it always was, just now he changed the detail of who burned the pack alive. That was scary, and totally unacceptable.

  
    "So, I've just changed my mind. I'm staying until I know if the Argents plan to retaliate."

  
    "Why? I assure you we are more than capable of -" Peter began.

  
    "No!" Stiles clenched his fist, "There will be no more innocent people dying as a result of my actions. Do you get me? Not one."    

  
    Maybe he was channeling the Doctor because he was just thinking about it. He couldn't really tell. It didn't matter where the insistence he was emulating came from. He wasn't going to leave anything to chance.

  
    "I want nothing to do with Alpha Hale and I want nothing to do with explaining myself further, to yet another person. What's mine is mine, like this room." Peter and Derek are both still trapped around the motel's bed. Stiles puts his hand to his forehead in frustration and groans. "What's mine is mine, like my story, and like your silence about my involvement. That is mine."

  
    "You said you were human." Derek inquires, gesturing to the mountain ash "So how did you do that?"

  
    "I thought I was human. Practically didn't even know shit until I was about 17. Scott getting bitten changed a lot for me. I probably could have lived my whole life behind my bedroom door if it wasn't for him. It was kind of my fault he got bit, though, I took him out one full moon and changed his life forever."

  
    It wasn't a leap in logic to admit that if he got Scott bitten, then, by extension, he got Scott killed. Everything that happened in that timeline was set into motion with the choice Stiles made to go out that night. But before that, it was set into motion by Kate massacring the Hale pack, so it was easy to justify his near-lie to the werewolves.

  
    "I know you can smell the guilt," Stiles said to both werewolves who were flaring their nostrils. Stiles summarized for Derek, "Scott's dead. All of my pack are gone. I killed Kate because it's her fault and she never would have stopped. I'll stay and kill Gerard for that same reason. Don't rat me out to your alpha. I don't want any reason to stay here once I'm finished."

  
    There wasn't much more Stiles could say to defend his position. Either they are already convinced or there was no way for him to convince them. He waved the mountain ash barrier away and a millisecond later Peter's hand was around his throat and he was pressed back against a wall.

  
    "What a pattern." Stiles deadpanned.

  
    Peter tightened his hand a fraction, and then continued to press just a bit harder for a few moments, until Stiles could no longer take air in. His thoughts began to spin as panic took hold. He ineffectually put his hands on Peter wrists and tried to pry him off. Then he remembered he could use his magic. He had enough power to at least get Peter's hands off him, and after that he could lock both Hale's back together and get out of there. But then he asked himself what the point would be. Was there really anything he needed to do? There was not one single person he knew who was ever going to be awaiting him. He was always, constantly worried about how he was supposed to live out the rest of his life. It was pathetic. He knew, silent tears falling down his face, lungs begging for expansion, this was just what was supposed to happen.

  
    He gripped his hands harder onto Peter's arms as an anchor and closed his eyes, letting all his muscles relax. It surprised Stiles, how easy it was to turn off the fight or flight instinct. Was the calmness he felt just a symptom of the black and white lights flashing behind his eyes? It was easy, like drowning. What a relief.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's totally not a cliffhanger because obviously stiles is going to live... because it's a steter fic lol
> 
> Heads ☝ up!!! V important notice!!! Am feeling super super super depressed/suicidal so there probably won't be any updates for a month... Minimum... So sorry but yeah i still plan to finish this...


	6. Drop

    _Stiles was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, but that didn't stop the grips of panic from seizing him completely. He was at home, on the bottom floor - and why is his house underwater? - The whole pack was there. Everybody, tucking themselves in for sleep. Peter was there, too, just lounging or sleeping in the next room over. He was going to go see him. Why? He questioned himself, but didn't stop his dream body from walking to the door and moving it open a little._

  
_The door caught on something, little bits of water trickling into the house. Huh, he thought, well, that could be concerning. I'll just have to be more careful._

  
_He shifted in order to move the door just enough for him to get out, so he could worry about the leaking later. After all, it's just a little bit of leaking. But he can't move the door without the water leaking growing in size._

  
_"Peter?" He called out, panic beginning to consume his body, "Peter!"_

  
_He tried to shut the door back into place, so the water wouldn't have a hole or crack to enter from, but the water came heavier._

  
_"Peter! Peter, you have to help!"_

  
_His mind flashes to the rest of his pack in the rooms upstairs. How could they hear him? He's not even trying hard enough to yell._

  
_"Help! Help! The water! It's leaking, oh God!"_

  
_His voice echoes around a bit, and he can't tell if it makes the trip to the ears on the floor above him. Peter should be hearing it, though. Peter should be running to his rescue, clawing his way to let the rest of the pack know so they can get out._

  
_Stiles makes his way past the door, ignoring the stream of water that seems to magnify in intensity every passing second. He just has to warn the pack._

  
_The water's at his ankles when he comes across his Dad, hobbled over, fragile, a cane in one hand._

  
_"Dad, the water. I have to get you out of here."_

  
_Sheriff Stilinski just looks at him with resignation, "I'm not afraid to die."_

  
_Stiles ignores that, heaving him up to stand on a banister. The water is well past his chest by now. He only needs his dad to stand there for just a minute so he can warn the others. How could his dad swim by himself? Do his legs even work properly these days?_

  
_His dad just stares at him as he makes his way to the staircase. Stiles starts screaming again, listening for signs that anybody is hearing him. When he reaches the top of the stairs, just floating on the rapidly increasing water, he hears Scott's voice._

  
_He's sleep addled, words slurring, sounding not concerned or even annoyed. Just, "Yeah, Stiles, I hear you. What'd'ya want?"_

  
_Stiles goes to take another breath in to scream back the danger Scott hasn't grasped yet. On his exhale, the scream gets trapped in the water. The water that's just ascended to cover his face. The water that is about to take his whole pack off-guard in just a moment's notice._

  
_Oh, god, where was Peter? He could have gotten the message to everybody quicker. He could have pulled them out._

  
_The breath just won't come. He's not even inhaling water. He's just heaving on nothing. At least Peter isn't going to almost die in a flood, as well as a fire. That would be too cruel. Maybe it's better that he wasn't here to watch his pack die again. Oh, but Stiles is heaving and not even his gratitude that the universe didn't let Peter suffer the same tragedy twice can calm him._

  
_He can feel his top teeth barely touching his bottom lip. He can feel the air around him that he just can't seem to hold._  
  
    He awakes with a deep gasp, eyes widened in panic. The thoughts are spinning. He's safe. _I'm safe._ He repeats it until he comes back to awareness to realize his hands are gripping the shirt over his chest with fervor.

  
    He lets go of the fabric, hands feeling stiff and unused. He takes stock of his body. He's on the floor, shitty carpet gritting into his exposed skin. Nothing feels broken, except his neck. Holy shit, did his neck hurt!

  
    He half expects Derek and Peter to have long ago left, but they're still sitting on his bed. They're watching him.

  
    Stiles is moving through a fog, unsure if he could even expend the energy to stand up or adjust his position. Even moving his head seems like a great effort. He'd just rather not speak or move or even think.     

  
    They're talking to him. No, Peter's talking to him. What he's saying makes sense. Stiles just doesn't register what it is. What is Peter saying? He's waving something into his face. His eyes focus on it. It's his ID. Okay, so Peter found Stiles' ID.

  
    Stiles tracks Peter movement with his eyes instead of with his brain. He's aware his mind is working unusually, but can't figure out why. Was he poisoned? Is he in shock? Both were equally likely, he figured.

  
    "This says you're from Beacon Hills. Tell me why." Peter's demand penetrates the edges of his haze.

  
    "Cus, that's how it's made." Stiles slurred back. The words feel heavy on his tongue, dripping like syrup and falling directly to the floor. Obviously, the reason it says Beacon Hills is because Beacon Hills was the name typed onto the fake ID.

  
    Peter's hand came from nowhere and helped itself to the back of his head, Stiles' hair wrapped between clawed fingers. He pulled and Stiles let out an awful yelp. He'd do anything to end that discomfort. Peter just wanted answers. He could do that, if it ended the painful yanks on his hair.

  
    "'S very fake. T's a fake ID. Not really real." Stiles said without prompting, feeling his face screw up. He just wants it all to go away. Peter tightens his grip without remorse.

  
    "Please," Stiles sighs, feeling tears coming from nowhere. He didn't think he was sad. Maybe he's feeling sad, though, he considers. If the tears are any reputable evidence, he was sad.

  
    "Let go, com'on. Please." Stiles tries again, wincing. His voice sounds cracked, harsh, broken.

  
    "Peter, please." He's not even looking at Peter. The first few tears are leaking out. He's resigned, not embarrassed. The world comes tunneling in when Peter lets go of him.

  
    He can't concentrate on anything, but he rolls his body closer to the wall and wraps his arms around all of the limbs he can reach. He wants to feel safe, and somehow that is being fulfilled by physical restriction on his part. He wants a blanket.

  
    He's staring at nothing, eyes steadied around the space between the bed and the motel floor. Nobody is talking anymore. His traitorous body is crying, still. He doesn't feel the need to hide it, nor move away.

  
    He can feel himself spiraling away. There's no blackness, no nothingness, he's just feeling worse and worse with each passing second. He's trying to pinpoint the feeling's origin when Derek comes and wraps his arm around Stiles.

  
    Derek armpit is over his shoulder, and even though he's smaller than Stiles, Stiles curls into the body offered to him. He doesn't even ask himself why. His descent into whatever underworld of mind there was abruptly stopped. He feels small, cradled into Derek's side, unable to find the words to ask for something. He wants more. He doesn't know what that means, but he needs more.

  
    Instead, he just tucks himself further into Derek, scooting down and resting his head on the wolf's stomach. His eyes are open but he doesn't see much. He doesn't think much. He's asleep before he can even realize he's tired again. This time, he doesn't dream.  
  
    He awakens in a puddle of spittle. Now, that's embarrassing. He feels his cheeks heat up at the thought, as he pulls away from whatever he's laying on.

  
    "Oh." Stiles deadpans, seeing Derek's face watching him. The puddle of drool he made was on Derek's stomach.

  
    "Good to see you're back with us."

  
    Stiles spins around from Derek to look at Peter.

  
    "Why are you still here?" Stiles asks.

  
    "Mountain ash." Peter supplies.

  
     "I broke the circle!" Stiles defends. "What are you talking about?"

  
    Immediately after asking, he remembers willing the line around the room to completion as they entered. He was momentarily struck by his incompetence before his mind caught back up to the present moment.

  
    "And you tried to kill me!"

  
    "Well, you're not dead." Derek spoke from his place still on the floor.

  
    "Not like you did much to prevent that, though, Stefan." Peter added.

  
    "I don't care." Stiles lies back.

  
    "Is Stefan your real name?"

  
    "Yes." Stiles lies.

  
    "And is all this money yours?" Peter's holding the bag that was suspended inside the toilet's water tank.

  
    "Yes." Stiles manages around the fury bubbling up inside him, "So hand it over."

  
    Peter considers for a moment, letting Stiles the time to emotionally freak out. Stiles doesn't even falter, keeping his emotions somewhere else for awhile to not be fucked over by them.

  
    "Very well." He gives Stiles the bag. It's no longer wet. How long ago must they have uncovered the bag? How long was Stiles asleep? He refused to think unconscious. That just didn't bode well. He's probably been knocked out enough times to cause permanent brain damage. He thinks his brain functions perfectly, but if his mind was flawed he couldn't tell. It would just be forever unknown to him.

  
    "I'm sorry for drooling all over you." Stiles ducks his head in shame. "I didn't know I still did that. And you know, thanks. For the, you know, physical connection."

  
    The rest is said sheepishly. He's just glad he has his money in his hands. What would he do without that? He has work the next afternoon. The light coming from the windows was grey. So was it morning or night? His clock said 7:00. _A.M. or P.M?_ He didn't know.

  
    "Mountain ash barrier eliminated." Stiles said humorlessly as he waved his hand. But, hey, he was trying.

  
    Both Derek and Peter are instantly on the move. Waiting here for him to wake up must have been torture.

  
    "Wait!" Stiles nearly screamed, tripping over himself in the haste to catch them before they disappeared.

  
    "Are you going to your Alpha? Am I safe?" He curses the slip, "Am I safe to stay here, in the Hale territory?"

  
    Peter wraps his arm around Derek the same way he did when they arrived, giving Stiles a familiar smirk.

  
    "As long as you don't cause trouble, I see no reason to bring our Alpha into our business dealings at this time." They turned away from Stiles and begin walking as Peter continued. "Expect to see us around more often, witch."

  
    And then they were gone. Stiles mouth gaped open at the gall of Peter. He wasn't a witch. Was he? Calling him witch just seemed rude. He was a magic-user, yeah, but a witch? Why not druid or mage? Those seemed cooler. He was standing in the motel room's doorway gaping at open air because he was so insulted.

  
    He made his way back into the room and gathered his clothes. Laundry mat. Where did that term come from? Obviously laundromat, as that was the original term that was plastered across the buildings.

  
    As he emptied his clothes into the machines and sat down into the silence of the room, he considered at length. If Laundromats came out in the 50's, which he was pretty sure they might have, then it was supposed to mean launder-o-matic. Which was very cool. Way cooler than laundry mat. A mat for launds. He laughed out loud, thankful nobody was around to witness him acting crazy in public.

  
    He found out pretty quickly that it was indeed nighttime, the same day as the fire. The fire. It sounds tacky in his head. Nobody was mentioning the very obvious bruising around his neck, but that didn't mean much because he had only run into two people so far, including the man behind the counter at the launder-o-matic he was using.

  
    What would Rose say? Would he get fired for being choked into unconsciousness? He should just laugh it off as a partner getting too kinky. She probably wouldn't approve. He didn't care, but he needed to keep earning money. Savings were everything. His safety net is cash wrapped in a plastic bag. He needs more. He'll always need more. He'd just play an Isaac and buy a scarf before his shift next afternoon.

  
    And speaking of kinky, he totally fell into sub space after being half-choked to death by Peter. He's only been in sub space once before, and getting there took literally being fucked into oblivion for 2 hours straight.

  
    Triggering it was as easy as being choked to death. He reconsidered, remembering it actually took weeks of stress and a house full of murders, and then being choked to death for him to drop.

  
    He should definitely not ever write any of that down. He could picture the reaction he'd get if he ever put any of that on a kink forum. It would be pretty funny until he was arrested.

  
    He was grateful for Derek. He was always grateful for Derek, but especially considering he was in the middle of a drop when he came to hold him. It would have been disastrous for Stiles if he would have kept dropping. He'd probably be another puddle of water on his bathroom floor, still. He probably wouldn't bother to go to work tomorrow. He wouldn't have the presence of mind to protect himself the way he needed to be protected.

  
    Well, life itself is a learning experience. He must be doing something right.  
  
    Working at Roseanne's was tedious. Everybody wanted everything and all he wanted was to stop moving. His voice was cracked and dry and no amount of water would relieve the discomfort. He felt like a domestic abuse victim. When someone inquired of his neck he did stutter out the kink excuse and all he got was a disgusted sneer and no tip. _Well, fuck you, lady_ , Stiles thought, seething.

  
    He kept re-adjusting the scarf when he was sure nobody was looking, hyper-aware of the bruising. _Just a fashion accessory_ , he assured somebody when they commented how warm he must be.

  
    "It's the middle of summer!" One of his customers exclaimed.

  
    "Beauty is pain!" He joked back in a mocking mirror of their intensity.

  
    After he counted his tips and said goodbye to his workmates, he exited to the back parking lot where Peter was awaiting him.

  
    The sky was grey again, dusk settling around the quiet neighborhood. He meant to catch up on the news, to see what Beacon Hills Police Department gathered about his arson, he just hadn't yet had the time. Maybe he'd watch a little bit at Fred's Pizza. They had like 5 televisions over the whole restaurant, he was sure one would be turned to the local news.

  
    Peter fell into step beside Stiles and handed over a prescription bottle.

  
    "Holy shit. No way." Stiles threw his arms up in disbelief. "You actually got me Adderall? You're a saint! Not counting the whole choking me to death thing, anyway."

  
    He continued his ranting without pause, "Is this going to be a continual thing? Can I expect a bottle of Adderall every couple weeks? I might be able to forgive you your trespasses if you keep coming through for me."

  
    Stiles laughs at his words. He was pretty sure he just quoted something from the Bible. It sounded distinctly Christian, anyway.

  
    "If you manage to stay alive, it's not much trouble."    Peter stopped walking, grabbing Stiles and halting his movement as well.

  
    Peter was surveying his entire body, and a crawling wrapped up Stiles spine, ending at his neck where all the hairs there stood up in an uncomforting shiver.

  
    Peter's hand came at Stiles too quickly for his mind to process before his unconscious reaction. He flinched away from the hand in a jerky movement he was ashamed of. Once his logic was in control he stilled. Peter ran his hand over the scarf and then under it, feeling his way around Stiles' throat. He moved the scarf away and took stock of the very dark bruises in the shape of his hand.

  
    Peter traced the outline and then gently set his fingers over the bruises that matched.

  
    Stiles heart was pounding. He didn't think he was scared of being choked to death again. After all, he did just get a bottle full of Adderall. Why even bother with that if he was about to die? There was no sense in that. So, he was pretty sure he wasn't about to die.

  
    Peter seemed transfixed. Stiles couldn't get any words to pass his lips, but his mouth opened after a few seconds of trying. That seemed sufficient enough to jolt Peter out of whatever reverie he was experiencing.

  
    "I apologize for causing you any undue stress." Peter still didn't move his hand. "I hope this can illustrate that fact."

  
    Oh, he was taking the pain. It didn't illustrate anything to Stiles but he was glad to be rid of the discomfort.

  
    "Thanks, now just do that a few times a day for the next couple days."

  
    Peter raised an eyebrow at him and removed his hand. Stiles let out a long breath he had no idea he was holding. His inhale was just as deep as the exhale.

  
    "We need to have a long discussion about the rest of the Argents." Peter informs him.

  
    "Not today?" Stiles asked hopeful. He wanted to eat and sleep tonight, not much else.

  
    "Not necessarily, sometime very soon though."

  
    "I get off at 2P.M. Wednesday, so that's, like 2 days. The day after tomorrow. That fine?" Stiles fiddled with the bottle of pills in his hand.

  
    "Yes, Derek and I will pick you up then. Be ready."

  
    "Aye, aye, captain." Stiles saluted and made his way to unlock his bike from where he chained it before his shift. When he turned around and jumped on his bike Peter was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the non-native english speakers
> 
> What'd'ya : what do you  
> cus: because  
> 'S very fake. T's a fake ID : it's very fake. it's a fake ID  
> com'on: come on
> 
> also i make up words a lot. sorry. i just take the base of words that exist and add to them so that they might fit the atmosphere accordingly. thanks for sticking with the month long hiatus. i don't exactly feel 100% again, but i don't want to die 12 times a day. please leave a comment or something if you feel like praising me :)


	7. Alligator Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment if ur still enjoying the story. if ur not comfortable doin' that it's cool too. love u guys ;)

    Wednesday morning, Stiles is in the throes of another nightmare. Of course, he won't admit that to anybody. Nope. Not a chance. In fact, he decides the best course of action is to pretend it hasn't happened. He definitely didn't wake up with his heart thrumming - his breath coming in short gasps, more than panicked out of his mind. He realizes, as he shoves the heavy blankets off of his sweaty skin, this inn feels more like a hovel than a home with each passing day. He forgets to take the Adderall Peter gifted him in his rush to leave that thought behind, and spends the first part of his morning shift drowning himself in black coffee to make up for the error.

  
    “Do you even have a job?” Stiles complains as he slides into Peter’s car that afternoon. “Or do you just slither your way around Beacon Hills during the day?”  
  
    Peter levels him with a look. Stiles barrels on, “So. I’m here to scheme, right? My plan is pretty much just to convince Asshole Argent that the Hale Pack had nothing to do with Other-Asshole Argent’s death.”  
  
    “As if Gerard is going to believe you,” Derek says from the backseat.  
  
    “Alright, good point,” Stiles admits. “I guess I could just establish myself as his enemy as soon as he gets into town.”  
  
    He’s fidgeting in his seat, running his hands over the door frame and the door handle, fingering the crack in the barely opened window.  
  
    “That’s probably not a good idea,” Peter says. “Perhaps we ought to just watch him for awhile.”  
      
    “Oh yeah, watch him for awhile. That worked out last time,” Stiles deadpans. He folds his hands in his lap to keep them still.  
  
    “It did work out, though, Stefan, if you can recall,” Peter adds haughtily.  
  
    “Hm,” Stiles acquiesces and looks out the window. “So. Where are we going?”  
  
    “Uncle Peter’s apartment.”  
  
    “Oh, are we?” Stiles winks at Derek. “Lucky us. Always wanted to be taken home by Peter.”  
  
    “Dear god,” Peter gripes, “I wish that would have been a lie.”  
  
    “And I wish that _that_ ,” Derek emphasizes, “would have been a lie.”  
  
    Stiles doesn’t laugh genuinely at Peter's expense, though he makes a valiant effort. It probably passes as genuine. He's trying too hard to ignore a small crawling feeling that's beginning in his extremities, climbing up him like a decorative ivy. Something's going to go wrong. He knows something has to go wrong. He resolutely ignores the rest of the idle conversation between Derek and Peter, focused inwards, trying to calm the phantom manifestations of his anxious thoughts.  
      
    Peter lives in the forest preserve, nowhere near what Stiles has always considered The Hale House. He doesn't know why he's surprised by that - but Peter doesn't yet know he needs to fear being so far from those who could have rescued him and his family. No hunter would sacrifice an entire apartment building in the middle of downtown Beacon Hills to kill just one wolf, anyway. Peter's choice of abode was for protection. This home is for his comfort, with an easy access to the preserve and a near-guarantee of seclusion.  
  
    “So. My sources say―” Peter begins as they settle into his living room.  
  
    “Your sources?” Stiles interrupts wryly.  
  
    Derek laughs. “He means he’s been running around the preserve and has finally caught Argent’s scent.”  
  
    Peter slaps Derek across the back of the head as he makes his way across the room. Throwing himself lengthwise across a chair with his feet left dangling over the armrest, Peter makes a wide sweep of his arm around the room. “Make yourselves comfortable.”  
  
    “So, what’s the plan? You do have a plan, right? Or a plan-in-work?” Stiles asks Peter as he takes a seat.  
  
    Derek settles in beside Stiles on the couch, not spreading himself out like Stiles is used to him doing. He catches Derek’s eyes and sends a grin his way, reaching down between them to grab his hand and squeeze. It’s tactile comfort. He smiles a little in response to Derek's questioning glance, before dropping his hand and turning his attention back to Peter, who is watching Stiles with a keen eye.  
  
    “It’s quite a bit difficult to place bets when I don’t know much about our adversary.” Peter folds his hands together and implores Stiles, “So why don’t you tell us everything you know about him?”  
  
    “Everything? Well shit. Alright...” Stiles trails off. What does he know about Gerard Argent? “He has cancer.” Or, he will have it. Stiles continues, “He’s very ego-centric. Like, he’d probably do anything to live forever.”  
  
    Stiles grimaces at that. Maybe he’s being hyperbolic. He’d take the bite to save his life, but maybe he’s not searching for immortality. “Flexible morals, dislikes the Hale pack, and he really, and I mean really, really enjoys killing werewolves.”  
  
    A somber silence falls over the room and Stiles looks to his hands as he continues, "He's the type of person to take any opportunity that'll benefit him. Probably not that worried about the law, either.”  
  
    “Hm,” Peter considers at length, doing nothing much more than staring at the wall between Stiles and Derek. “Then we should probably get the police involved.”  
  
    “Ha. That’s a joke, right?” Stiles shifts nervously.  
  
    “What are you talking about?” Derek prompts Peter.  
  
    “If he’s not worried about the police he won’t be worried about getting caught either.” Peter shrugs, “It’s a valid assumption.”  
  
    “Yeah,” Stiles says. “It’s valid, until you consider the only thing we know he’s for sure gonna do is kill your pack. But yeah, you’ve really got the full idea. You totally get it.”  
  
    “In fact,” Stiles stands in a grand motion, “I see you’ve got this all figured out. You guys can do you. I think I’m going to go with Plan A.”  
  
    “Was there ever a Plan A?” Derek asks. “I’m pretty sure we’re still working on that.”  
  
    “Plan A is establish myself as enemy right off-the-bat.” Stiles pulls at the hem of his shirt and tugs at it in a huff. “Big scary magic user threatens to end his life, sends him running, tail between his legs, all the way back to wherever he came from. Sound good?”  
  
    Peter and Derek exchange a look, standing in tandem. Peter begins circling Stiles sedately. He’s out of Stiles’s line of sight when he starts talking, forcing Stiles to turn to face him.  
  
    “Why would that deter him? Or anybody, for that matter.” Peter stalks away from him, over to Derek. “You seem to be under the impression that you’re a force to be reckoned with.”  
  
    “I have seen no evidence to back that up,” Peter drawls, “For instance, anybody can light a fire.”  
  
    Peter comes around behind Derek, wrapping one arm across his nephew’s shoulders and puts his other hand to Derek’s neck.  
      
    “Anyone can end a life.” Peter lets his claws flick out to touch Derek’s neck, “For example. Can you guess what’s going to happen next? If this were Gerard and Derek, for instance.”  
  
    The claw on Peter’s forefinger pierces Derek’s skin. Derek growls in protest and moves to get out of his uncle’s grip but is immediately halted.  
  
    Stiles clenches a fist at his side, willing the unnecessary anger to subside. Peter's just trying to make a point in the less-than-artful way he always manages to employ.  
  
    “I’ll tell you, since you’re so uncharacteristically quiet. Stefan,” Another one of Peter’s claws break the skin and Derek tries to shift away from the digit. “Stefan, the next thing that happens is little Derek here, bleeding out on the ground,” Another claw puncture, and more blood running down Derek’s skin and catching in his shirt.  
      
    “You know what happens next? Derek dies,” Peter finishes, “because your plan is flawed and you’re less than prepared - “  
  
    He’s never prepared. Stiles knows he has the tendency to rush in before the plan’s made, but he’s good at improvising. There are times when there’s nothing to do but improvise. And hell, he came back to be in this very moment. That was a plan. So he over-looked the whole Gerard thing? Shit happens. He’s trying to right that wrong, anyway.  
  
    But Peter - Peter with his claws pressed into Derek’s skin. Peter with his eyes focused not on the literal life in his hands, but on Stiles. Peter challenging him for something unrelated, using Derek’s body as fodder to make a point. Stiles can’t accept that. He remembers with vigor the hatred he's felt for Peter - why he didn't want to be associated with Peter, especially, for the entirety of his trip to the past.  
  
    Stiles takes a step forward and unsheathes his knife. It hits Peter’s left shoulder, sticking shock back onto his smug face. Stiles takes the moment of surprise to his advantage, sending a wave of energy crashing into Peter, knocking him away from Derek. From the floor, Peter laughs.  
      
    “Impressive,” Peter commends, standing up and taking the knife from the wound. He takes a calculated step away from Stiles and throws the knife somewhere behind him. “If you could refrain from stabbing me, however…” He trails off, ever casual.  
      
    “If you could refrain from sticking your fucking claws into Derek? Yeah, that would be beneficial if you want to keep living.” Stiles bares his teeth at the wolf. It’s less habit and more a deliberate threat. Peter has to know Stiles is not fucking around, not with Derek. Peter matches his stare moment for moment, baring his own teeth in warning.  
  
    “Peter,” Derek interrupts with a placating gesture, “I think he’s okay."  The small cuts have disappeared, though Derek's thumb still trails over his neck absently. "I trust him."  
      
    Peter seethes quietly, searching both Derek and Stiles for a hint of how to proceed. Derek's squared against him, back to Stiles as if Peter were an actual threat to his safety.  
     
    "Very well." Peter says, tone clipped. "I sincerely hope you've prepared for everything to fail spectacularly. I'll have popcorn ready for the inevitable fallout."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still kind of in hiatus honestly but i have at least the bones for 1 more chapter and a few key points for future development. i just gotta... you know... force myself to sit tha fuk down and write lol.


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